HALE-HOUil STOIUES 



CHOICE READING 



HCOH^dZE -A-TsTID TI^J^-VEIL.. 



JOHN S. ADAMS. 



BOSTON : 
a. W. OOTTRELL, 36 OORNHILL. 

1858. 



oO^ 



-j^'^v 



«^^XV 



Entered according in Act uf CoMtnress, in the year 1854, by 

G. \V. COTTRELL. 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Coiu-t for the District of Massachuseint. 



HOBABT 4 K0BBIN8, 
England Tjpe an(i Stercotjpc Foundry, 
BOSTON. 

PrcM of Geo. 0. Rand, S Cornhll 



CONTENTS. 



PAoa 

Saved by Kindness, . 9 

The Love of Elinoke, *. 31 

'Tis Sweet to be Rejiebibeked, 33 

I CALL Thee Mine, 34 

The Old Te.ee and it? Lesson, 35 

Voices from the Spirit Land, 40 

The Beacon Light, 41 

Bear Up, • 42 

A Welcome Song to Spring, 43 

The Hope of the Fallen, 44 

Thoughts that come from Long Ago, 77 

Determined to be Rich, 78 

The Heaven-sent, Heaven-returned, 79 

Flowers, Bright Flowers, 80 

Forget me Not, , 81 

What is Truth? . 82 

The Homestead Visit, 87 

The Mariner's Song, 89 

Love's Last Words, 90 

Light in Darkness, • 91 

Mt. Vernon, and the Tosib op Washington, , . . '. 92 

Freedom's Gathering, 98 

Song of the Bird, 102 

I Change but in Dying, 103 

1* 



'6 CONTENTS. 

He 18 THT Brothek, 103 

The Wine-dealer's Clerk 104 

Angelina, 128 

r.< REWELL, MT NATIVE LaND, 130 

Unlearned to Love, 131 

What was it? 131 

Letters and Letter-writino, 133 

A Vision of Reality, 141 

Jewels of the Heart, o 145 

Light from a Better Land, 146 

Poor and We"ary, .147 

The Bandbox Movement, 148 

New^England Homes, 151 

Onward Courageously, 152 

A Forest Pic-nig Song, 153 

The Warrior's Bride, 155 

The Advent of Hope, 164 

Child and Sire 164 

A Brother's Welcome, 169 

The Immensity of Creation, 170 

A Vision of Heaven, ' 175 

There 's Hope for Thee yet, ■ 177 

Soliloquy over the Grave of a Wife, 177 

The Fugitives, 179 

The Universal Jubilee, 180 

The Widow's Story, 181 

The Battle of the Red Men, 191 

Sunlight on the Soul 194 

A Song from the Absent, 195 

To THE Loved One at Home, 195 

Twilight Forest Hymn, 196 

The Summer Shower, 197 

Autobiography of an Automaton, 198 

To THE Unknown Donor of a Bouquet, 207 

To a SisrsR in Heaven, 208 



CONTENTS. 7 

I Drkamed op Thee Last Night, Love, 210 

They tell of Happy Bowers, 211 

Man cannot Live and Love not, 211 

Better than Gold, 213 

Gone Away, , 227 

Lines to my AVife, 228 

Oheer Up, 230 

Trust Thou in God, 231 

The Ministration of Sorrow, 232 

Giving Publicity to Business, 234 

The Mission of Kindness, 242 

A Plea for the Fallen, 245 

Joy Beyond, 24G 

The Summer Days are coming, 247 

The Man who knows Everything, 248 

Pride and Poverty, 251 

Words that touch the Inner Heart, 253 

Our Home, 254 

Speculation and its Consequence, 256 

Retrospection, 265 

Nature's Fair Daughter, Beautiful Water, 269 

The Test of Friendship, 270 

Weep Not, 271 

Rich and Poor, 273 

The Homeward Bound, 282 

The Poor of Earth, 283 

If I don't Others will, 285 

Not made for an Editor, 288 

Here 's to the Heart that 's ever Bright, 296 

Morning Beauty, . . » 297 

The Recompense of Goodness, 297 

Bridal Songs, 298 

The Jug afloat, 300 

Give, and stay their Misery, 310 

The Spirit of Man 311 



8 CONTENTS. 



Pause and Think. 

Little Nelly, 

We shall all be Happy soon, 



312 
314 



319 



Repnion, ^2^ 

323 

829 



The Village Mystery, * * * * 

The Wayside Death, 

Beauty and Innocence, ^^1 

Night, 2^2 

Not Dead, but Changed, . . . . 335 

The Disinherited, ^^^ 

The Seasons all are Beautiful, 360 

Spring 362 

A Text for a Lifetime, 365 

Now Close the Book, 869 



HALr-HOUR STORIES. 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 

"A kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones." 
CHAPTER I. 

" Then you are here ! " said a stern, gruff voice, address- 
ing a pale, sickly-looking youth, whose frame trembled and 
whose lip quivered as he approached one who sat at the side 
of a low pine table ; — it was his master, a man of about 
forty, of athletic form, and of power sufficient to crush the 
feeble youth. 

" Well," he continued, " if you are sure that you gave it 
to him, go to bed ; but mind you, whisper — breathe not the 
secret to a living soul, on peril of your life ! You may evade 
my grasp, but like blood I will track you through life, and 
add a bitter to your every cup of sweet." 

The lad had no sooner left the room than a man entered, 
whose carelessly arranged apparel and excited appearance 
indicated that something of vast importance — at least, as 
far as he was concerned — burthened his mind. 

" Harry," he said, throwing himself upon a chair, " 1 
fear we are betrayed — discovered — completely used up." 

"Discovered!" shouted the person addressed. "How'/ 
where 1 why 1 " 



10 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" It is SO, friend Harry. The boy you sent made a sad 
error." 

"Then murder the boy!" and, clutching a dagger, he 
motioned to leave the room, and would have done so to 
plunge it in the bosom of the lad. had not his informant in- 
terfered, and thus prevented him from executing so rash and 
cruel an act. 

" What ! — I will — will do it ! " he shouted, endeavoring 
to release himself from the hands of the other. 

" Never ! " was the bold, unwavering response. •' Move a 
step, and death shall be thy doom. Seest thou tlcat 7 " and 
the speaker drew from his bosom a richly-mounted pistol. 

"Doubtless thou art right," said Harry, in a more calm 
manner ; " the excitement of the moment urged me to des- 
peration^ and, if any ])ut you had arisen in my path, the 
glistening steel should have met his heart. But, Bill, how, 
— I am confused, my eyes swim, — tell me, how are we dis- 
covered ? Must the last act in the great drama of our fortune- 
making be crushed in the bud ? — and who dare do it 7 " 

"If you will restrain your indignation, I will tell you." 

" A hard task, yet I will try." 

" That answ^er will not do ; you must say something more 
positive." 

" Then I say, I will." 

" Enough, — the boy Sim handed the note to the kitchen- 
girl." 

" But, Bill, think you she suspected its contents ? " 

"That I cannot say, but she is inquisitive, and has been 
known to unseal letters committed to her care, by some in- 
genious way she has invented. She looked uncommonly 
wise when she handed it to me and said, ' Mr. Bang, that 's 
of no small importance to you.' " 

" The deuce she did ! I fear she deserves the halter," 
said Harry. 

"What, with the ^oflf?" 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. . 11 

1- No, there is too much Caudleism in her to make her 
worthy of that ; but this is no time for our jokes. Your 
suspicions are too true ; but how shall we act ] what plans 
shall we adopt?" 

"None, Harry, but this; — we must act as though we 
were the most honest men on earth, and act not as though 
we suspected any of suspecting us." 

" 0, yes, I understand you. Bill ; we must not suspect 
anything wrong in her." 

" That 's it," answered Bill, and, plunging his hand into 
his pocket, he drew from thence a small scrap of greasy, 
pocket- worn paper, and read a few. words in a low whisper 
to his friend Harry. A nod from the latter signified his 
approval. He returned the mysterious memorandum to his 
pocket, and planting upon his head a poor, very poor apology 
for a hat, swung his body round a few times on his heel, and 
leaving the house, pushed open a small wicket-gate, and 
entered the street. He hurriedly trudged along, heaping 
silent curses upon the head of Harry's boy, the kitchen-girl, 
and sundry other feminine and masculine members of the 
human family not yet introduced to the reader. 

Bold Bill gone, Harry sat for some considerable length 
of time ruminating upon the strange turn ailairs had taken, 
and indulging in vague speculations upon whether the next 
would be as unfavorable ; and at this point of our story we 
will divulge somewhat of his history. 

Henry Lang had been in years past a man well-to-do in 
the world ; he was once a merchant respected for his strict in- 
tegrity and punctuality in business affairs ; but by a false step, 
a making haste to be rich, he was ruined. The great land 
speculation of '37 and thereabout was the chief, and in fact 
the only cause of his misfortune. On one day he could 
boast of his thousands, and no paper held better credit than 
that signed or endorsed by him. The next, the bubble broke, 



12 - HALF HOUR STORIES. 

liis fortune \Yas scattered, his riches took to themselves wings 
and tknv away his creditoi-s, like vultures, flocked around 
and speedily de 'oured what little remained of his once large 
possessions. He was a man easily affected by such occur- 
rences, and they deeply wounded his sensitive feelings. 
What should he do 7 He looked around upon those who 
once professedly loved him ; but no hand was extended, no 
heart sympathized with him in the hour of trouble. He left 
)iis country, and Avith it a wife and one child, a daugliter, 
lovely, if not in^iersonal appearance, in higldy virtuous and 
intellectual qualities, which, after all, will be admitted to be 
of more value than that which time withei-s and sickness 
destroys. 

With a sad heart Mr. Lang left these and the spot of 
earth around which many fond recollections clustered. After 
twenty months of tedious wanderings, he returned, but he 
was a changed man : his ambitious spirit had been crushed, 
all his hopes had departed, and he g-ave himself up to the 
fanciful freaks of a disordered mind. Defeated in his honest 
ondeavoi-s to obtain a livelihootl, he was now seeking out dis- 
honest ways and means to retrieve his fallen fortune. He 
sought for those of a kindred spirit, nor was he long in find- 
ing such : in a short time he became aequdnted. and soon 
after connected, with a gang of adventurous men. about six 
in number, who by various fraudulent meaus were each amass- 
ing much wealtii. 

'• And he deserted me in this my time of need ! Can it 
be true tli.'it he h;is gone ? For him I would willingly have 
endured any privation. Did he not know that my love was 
strong 1 Could he not believe me when I sjiid, that, jis I 
joyed with him in his prosperity. I would mourn with him 
in its revei-se 7 — thxt I could ever be near to comfort jmd 
console. — one with him at all times, under all ciivum- 
«>tances ^ " 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 13 

"Comfort yourself, clear mother!" said a calm voice. 
" Remember that these trials are for our good, and that the 
sorrows of eai-th are but to prepare us for the joys of heaven. 
Cheer up, mother ! let those thoughts rejoice thy heart ! 
Despair not, but take courage ! " 

With such words did the daugliter administer consolation 
to the afflicted, when hearing that her husband had forsaken 
her and sailed for a foreign port. It Avas indeed a heavy 
blow, and she felt it severely. She could have endured the 
thought of having all her earthly possessions taken from hur, 
— but to be deserted, to be left at such a time dependent 
upon the charities of the world for a subsistence, such a 
thought she was not prepared to withstand. 

The few words of Julia having been said, a deep silence 
for some moments pervaded the room. She sat and gazed 
up into the face of her mother, whose tears bore witness to 
the deep anguish of her soul. The silence wasjgaiterrupted 
by the rising of the latter, who for a few moments paced the 
room, and then sank helplessly into a chair. The attentive 
child sprang to her relief, a few neighbors were called in, 
she was laid upon her bed. That night a severe attack of 
fever came upon her ; for many days her life was despaired 
of; but at length a ray of hope cheered the solitude of the 
chamber of the sick, and at the close of six weeks ner health 
was in a gi'eat degree restored. 

"Time heals all wounds," is a common saying, true in 
some cases, but not in all. Some wounds there ai-e that sink 
deep in the heart, — their pain even time cannot remedy, but 
stretch far into eternity, and find their solace there. Others 
there are which by time are partially healed ; — such was that 
of Mrs. Lang. During her sickness, many of the little inci- 
dents that before had troubled her passed from her mind. 
She now yielded submissively to her sad allotment, believ- 
ing, as during her sickness she had often been told, that 
2 



14 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

afflictions come but for our own good, however paradoxical 
such a statement might seem to be. 

The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daugh- 
ter, to remove their place of residence. This neighbor — a 
lady of moderate pecuniary circumstances — furnished them 
with needle-work, the compensation for which enabled 
them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortable living. 

CHAPTER II. 

For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting 
upon his hands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence 
prevailed, broken only, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh 
following the merry jest of some passer-by, or the dismal 
creaking of the swing-sign of an adjncent tavern. 

How long Mr. Lang might have remained in that position 
is not for us to determine. But it would have been much 
longer, hiwrnot a loud rap at the outer door awakened him 
from his drowsy condition. 

He started at the sound, and, taking in his hand a dim- 
burning candle, proceeded to answer the call. Opening the 
door, a man closely enveloped in a large cloak and seal-skin 
cap, the last of Avhich hung slouchingly about his head and 
face, inquired, in a gruff, ill-mannered voice, whether a person 
unfavorably known to the jjolicc as " Bold Bill " had been 
there. Harry trembled, knowing his interrogator to be one 
of the city watch ; yet he endeavored to conceal his fears and 
embarrassment by a forced smile, and remarked : 

" That is indeed a strange name, and one of which I have 
never before heard. Tell me what he has been about. ' ' 

" Why do you think he has been about anything, or why 
think you I am acquainted with his actions'?" inquired the 
stranger, in a stern voice, as though the supreme majesty of 
the law represented by him was not to be spoken lightly of 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 15 

His scrutinizing features relaxed not in the least, but he 
looked our hero steadfastly in the face. 

"By the appearance of your dress I judge you to be a 
watchman, and as such I suppose you to be in search of that 
odd-named person on account of his being suspected of having 
broken the law." 

" You arc right," answered the oflBcer. " I am a watch- 
man ! The authority invested in me is gi'eat. I trust I 
duly appreciate it. I guard your dwelling when you are 
slumbering, unconscious of what takes place around you." 

'•You aie very kind," remarked Harry, suddenly inter- 
rupting hiiii, and speaking .rather ironically than otherwise. 

The Vvatchiuan continued : " Life is to me nothing unless 
I can employ it in doing good. Do you understand me 7 " 

" Perfectly." 

"Will you walk in 7" inquired Mr. Lang, as a sudden 
gust of wuid nearly extinguished his light. 

" No, I thank you ; that would be of no service to my 
fellow-men ; and, as I am in search of the man who com- 
mitted the robbery, ten minutes ago, upon Mr. Solomon Cash 
the broker, I must " 

" Robbery ! " exclaimed Harry, appearing perfectly aston- 
ished at the thought. " 0, the .degeneracy of the nineteenth 
century, — the sinfulness of the age ! " 

" Amen ! " responded the officer; and, pulling his large, 
loose cloak more closely about him, he made a motion to con- 
tinue on in the service of his fellow-n\en. 

" But wait, my good man," said Harry. " Am I to sup- 
pose, from what you said, that ' Bold Bill ' is the perpetrator 
of this base crime 7 " 

"Precisely so," was the laconic reply; and the man 
moved on in execution of his benevolent designs. 

"He should be brought to justice," said Harry, as ho 
turned to enter. No sooner, however, had he closed the door, 



16 HALF HOUR BTORIES. 

than he burst forth in a loud laugh. This was soon changed 
to seriousness, for he became confident that his friend Bill 
Avas in danger. To shield him, if guilty, from detection, and 
protect him, if innocent, was now his great object. But 
where should he find him 1 That was a problem he could not 
solve. The boy was sleeping soundly ; he must awaken him, 
he must go out in search of his friend. 

With this intention, he dressed himself in a stout, heavy 
overcoat, and, locking the door 'hurriedly, walked up the 
street. On he went, as though his life depended upon 
whether he reached a certain square at a certain time. He 
looked at nothing save some far-distant object, from which, 
as it approached, he withdrew his eyes, and fixed them on an 
object yet distant. Turning a corner, a collision took place 
between him and another man, who appeared to be in as much 
haste as himself He was about to proceed, when he who 
had met him so abruptly struck him very familiarly upon 
the shoulder, saying, as he did so, " Harry, how are you 1 
— good luck — tin — lots of it — watch — haste." 

The person thus addressed was not long in discovering who 
it was that spoke to him, and from his words and actions 
that he had reason to be in some haste. It was he for 
whom he was in search ; and, being aware that the nature of 
the case demanded despatch, he cordially grasped his hand, 
and, Avithout another word between them, they in a short 
time reached the dwelling of Mr. Lang. 

" What are the facts now? " inquired Harry, after having 
narrated the incident that had occurred since he left, namely, 
the watchman's visit. 

" Then you think there is no danger in my staying here?" 
inquired Bill. 

" Not in the least," replied Harry ; " for I positively as- 
serted that you was not here, and strongly intimated that 
I knew no person of your name. Danger ! there is none ; 
so proceed, friend Bill, — but a little wine." 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 17 

Wine is an indispensabie with all rogues ; it nerves to law- 
lessness, and induces them, when under its influence, to 
commit acts which in their sober moments they would scorn 
to perform. 

The wine-glass emptied, Bill proceeded in his narrative. 

" When I left here, I started intending in a direct course 
to go home Musingly I walked along, cursing my fate, 
and several other things, too numerous to mention, and spec- 
ulating upon the probable success of our scheme, till I ar- 
rived in front of the old broker's. He was just putting up 
his iron-clamped shutters. I was on the opposite side, at 
some distance, yet not so far but that I plainly saw him 
enter and pack snugly away in his little black trunk divers 
articles of apparently great worth. I carelessly jingled the 
last change in my pocket, of value about a dollar or so ; 
and the thought of soon being minus cash nerved me to the 
determination of robbing the broker. Thus resolved. I hid 
myself behind a pile of boxes that seemed placed there on 
purpose, till I heard the bolt spring, and saw the broker, 
with the trunk beneath his arm, walk away. As he entered 
that dark passage, 'Togg-lane,' I pulled my cap down over 
lay face, and dogged him, keeping the middle of the passage ; 
and, seeing a favorable opportunity, I sprang upon him from 
behind, and snatched the box ; then left him to his fate. 

•' I ran off as fast as my legs, urged on by the cry of 
'stop thief,' would carry me. Notwithstanding the speed 
at which I ran, I found the crowd bearing down upon me ; 
and, my hope almost failing, I had resolved to give in and 
suffer the consequences, when, seeing a dark lane, I ran into 
it, then dodged behind a pump. The crowd ran on ; I found 
I had escaped. Now, Harry, a friendly shake in honor of 
my good luck." 

'• As you say," answered Harry, " and it is my humble 
opinion you are not entirely free from change." 
2* 



18 IlAl.F llOni STO«IES. 

" Roally, llan-y, I don't know wluit the box contains ; hovr- 
ever, 'tis cont'oundod heavy. It is lull ot'gold or iron." 

''My face fur ii scrubber, it' small change is n't pretty 
much the contents ; the tburpences and dimes lie pretty near 
together, friend Bill."' '-But," continued Harry, "'tis 
best to secrete yourself, box and all, till the law dogs are 
silenced. If they come here, I will throw them a bone ; but 
hark!—" 

The two remained silent ; for the sound of approaching 
footsteps momentarily grew more distinct. It sounded 
nearer, and now was in front of the door. 

'• To the closet," whispered Harry; and in a moment Mr. 
Lang was the only occupant of the room. He was right in his 
supposition ; for the door opened, and the same man, in the 
same cloak, with, the same consequential air, accompanied by 
othei-s, entered abruptly, and interrogated Harry ntther 
closely. '"Positively, I know nothing about him," s;vid Mr. 
Lang. This declaration seemed to have a wonderful eflectupon 
each of the officers. They gazed steadfastly at him, then at 
each other, and their features indicated their belief in what 
he said. 

'' Benevolent as I am," said the officer, •• I must require 
a strict search : — not that we suspect him to be on your prem- 
ises, noble sir, but my duty demands it. " 

The officer, having thus far declared what he thought to 
be his duty, piweedeil to its performance by pushing open 
the doors tlnx)ugh which egress could be had to the street, 
and all othei-s. xVs chtmce would have it, the right door 
was by them luiobserveil But where was the fugitive? 
He had been hurrieil into a closet. It was not after the 
manner of most closets. It was about three feet square, at 
one side of which was a door communicating with the cel- 
lar, through which any person might pass, and from thence 
into the street. He could not stand long and listen to the 



SAVED liY KINDNESS. 19 

loud converse of those without. lie felt himself in danger 
if he remained, and determined upon leaving the closet. So, 
having passed into the cellar, he entered the street. 

The night Avns dark ; the hour late, and no persons stir- 
ring. Softly he crept henoath the window, and, perceiving 
none in the room hut Harry, softly tapped the glass. Mr. 
Lang raised his arm, by which signal Bill understood that he 
was aware of his having loft the closet. Then through hack 
lanes, selilom pedestriauafod, and narrow passages, he wended 
his way, with his stolen treasure closely held heneatii tho 
loose folds of his jacket. He passed on, till, reaching a dark 
street, he bclield a dim light in a low oyster-cellar; he en- 
tered. A black fellow was the proprietor, cook, &c. Bill 
asked for lodgings. 

" Well, massa, dem I 'ave ; but I always take pay in ad- 
vance from gemmen." 

Bill asked tho price. 

"Wall, 'tis fourpanco on a chest, and threepance on de 
floor." 

Mr. Bang availed himself of the best accommodations, and 
accepted the chest. lie stretched himself upon it, having 
settled the bill, but slept little. His mind was continunlly 
roaming. Now he imagined himself in the closet, with 
scarcely room to breathe, and an officer's hand on the latch ; 
now groping along untraversed paths, till, falling into some 
bol6, he awoke from his revery. 

'T was near the dawn of day when, from his house, accom- 
panied by the boy, Mr. Lang passed out in search of Bill. 
A light rain was falling, and in perspective he saw a dull, 
drizzly sort of a day, — a bad air for a low-spirited individ- 
ual. The " blues " are contagious on such a day. Yet he 
strove to keep his spirits up, anil to make the best, of a bad 
job. 

As he passed by the office of the broker, he perceived a 



20 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

crowd, and many anxious inquiries were heard respecting the 
robbery. It appeared the broker had received but little injury, 
and was as busy as any one in endeavoring to find out the 
rogue. Harry put on as bold a face as possible, and inquired 
of the broker the circumstances, which he very minutely 
narrated. 

" Have you any suspicions of any one ? " inquired Mi 
Lang. 

" Of no one," was the brief response. 

" It would be very sad if the rascal could.not he found,' 
continued Mr. Lang. " The gallows is too good for one who 
would make such a cowardly attack, and" treat with such 
baseness one who never harmed his fellow." 

" I am of your opinion," answered the broker; and the 
two, having thus fully expressed their opinion, parted. 

Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his compan- 
ion. He entered the cellar just as the latter had arisen 
from his chesty couch, and a cordial grasp of the hand bore 
witness that friends had met. 

Both were aware that the place in which they were was 
not of very good repute, and made all possible haste to re- 
move. But, to effect this successfully, it was necessary that 
Mr. Lang should have a change of dress. 

He was making this change when half a dozen men unex- 
pectedly entered. " You are my prisoner," said one, catch- 
ing hold of Mr. Lang by the coat-collar. "Tropes, secure 
the other." 

They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a 
little search, discovered the broken box, and arrested the 
black man. 

" For what am I arrested? " inquired Mr. Lang. 

" That you will soon know," was the reply. 

*' But I demand an answer now. I will not move a step 
till I get it " 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 21 

" Wliat ! what 's that? " said a stout, rough-looking man, 
striking the prisoner, and treating him more like a dog than 
what he was. 

" I demand an answer to my inquiry. For what am I 
arrested? " 

" He 's a dangerous man," remarked another of the offi- 
cers ; " it 's best to put him in irons ; " whereupon he drew 
from a capacious pocket a pair of rusty manacles. Mr. 
Lang, and his two fellows in trouble, found it best to coolly 
submit, and did so. Five minutes passed, and the cold 
walls of a prison enclosed them. 

CHAPTER III. 

Daylight breaks, and the dwellers upon a thousand hills 
rejoice in the first rays of the morning sun. 

" Didst thou ever hear that promise, ' God will provide ' 1 
inquired a pale, yet beautiful girl, as she bent over the form 
of a feverish woman, in a small, yet neatly-furnished room. 

"Yes," was the reply ; "and he who allows not a spar- 
row to fall unnoticed, shall he not much more care for us ? 
Yes, Julia, God will provide. My soul, trust thou in God ! " 

It was Mrs. Lang. The good lady who had befriended her 
was suddenly taken ill, and as suddenly died. Mrs. Lang, with 
her daughter, left the house, and, hiring a small room at an ex- 
orbitant rent, endeavored, by the use of her needle, to live. 
She labored hard ; the morning's first light found her at her 
task, and midnight's silent hour often found her there. The 
daughter too was there ; together they labored, and together 
shared the joys and sorrows of a worse than widowed and 
orphaned state. Naturally of a feeble constitution, Mrs. Lang 
could not long bear up under that labor, and fell. Then 
that daughter was as a ministering angel, attending and 
watching over her, and anticipating her every want. Long 



22 ' HALF HOUR STORIES, 

was sli.3 obliged to labor to provide the necessaries of life ; 
often 'vorking hard, and receiving but ten to fifteen cents a 
day for that which, if paid for as it should be, would have 
brought her a dollar. It was after receiving her small pit- 
tance and having returned to her home, that the words at 
the commencement of this chapter fell from her lips. Her 
mother, with deep solicitude, inquired her success. 

' ' He says he can get those duck trousers made for three 
cents, and that, if I will not make them for that, he can 
give me no more work. You know, mother, that I work 
eighteen hours of the twenty-four, and can but just make 
two. pair, — that would be butsi^r cents a day.'''' 

" My child," said the mother, rising with unusual strength, 
"refuse such a slavish oifer. Let him not, in order to enrich 
himself, by degrees take your life. Death's arrows have 
now near reached you. Do not thus wear out your life. Let 
us die ! " 

She would have said more ; but, exhaXisted by the effort, 
she sank back upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, 
" Didst thou ever hear that promise, ' God will provide ' ? " 

The question had been put, and the answer given, when 
a slight rap at the door was heard. Julia opened it ; a small 
package was hastily thrust into her hand, and the bearer of 
it hasted away. It was a white packet, bound with white 
ribbon, and with these words, "Julia Lang," legibly writ- 
ten upon it. She opened it ; a note fell upon the floor ; she 
picked it up, and read as follows : 

' ' Enclosed you will find four five-dollar bills. You ire 
in want ; use them, and, when gone, the same unknown hand 
Avill grant you more. 

" Le*; me break now a secret to you which I believe it is 
my duty to divulge. You will recollect that your father 
mysteriously abandoned you. He is now in this city, in 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. Z6 

street jail, awaiting his trial. I am confident that he is in- 
nocent, and will be honorably acquitted ; and I am as confident 
that it needs but your presence and your kind entreaty to 
bring him back once again to his family and friends. I have 
spoken to him, but my words have had no efiect except when 
I spoke of his family. Then I could see how hard he strove 
to conceal a tear, and that I had found a tender chord, that 
needed but your touch to cause it to work out a reformatory 
resolution. 

■' I write because Mr. Lang was a friend of mine in his days 
of prosperity. I know he has no heart for dishonesty ; but, 
thinking himself deserted by those who should cling to him, 
he madly resolved to give himself up, and follow where fate 
should lead. Yours, truly, 

" Charles B . 

"N. B. Others have also spoken with him; but their 
appeals have been in vain. If you will be at the corner of 

L avenue and W street, at three o'clock to-day, a 

carriage will be in readiness to convey you to his pres- 
ence. C. B." 

Anxiously did Mrs. Lang watch the features of her child as 
she stood perusing the letter ; and as she sat down with it 
unfolded, apparently in deep thought, her inquisitiveness in- 
creased. She inquired — she was told all. " Go," said she 
to her daughter, " and may the blessings of Heaven attend 
you ! " 

Julia stood wondering. She had doubted before; she 
feared it might be the scheme of some base intriguer; but 
now her doubts vanished, and hope cheered her on. 

Long seemed the intervening hoursj and many were the 
predictions made concerning the success of her mission ; 
yet she determined to go, in the spirit of Martin Luther, 



24 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

though every stone in the prison should arise to perse- 
cute her. 

The appointed hour came, and, letter in hand, she left 
her room, and repaired to the spot. There she found a car- 
riage ; and the driver, who, it appeared, was acquainted with 

her, inquired whether she desired to go to street jail. 

Replying in the aflBrmative, she entered, and the carriage 
drove oflF. When she had reached the street, and came in 
full view of the prison, her timidity almost overcame her ; 
but, recollecting the object she had in view, she resisted a 
desire that involuntarily arose to return. 

"Is the warden in?" inquired the driver of the gate- 
keeper. 

" He is ; — another feast for the lion, eh ? " and the keeper, 
who had more self-assurance than manners, having laughed 
at his own nonsense, pulled a bell-cord, and the warden 
appeared. 

" The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang 
wished me to bring this young lady here, and introduce her 
to you as Mr. Lang's daughter." Having said this, the hack- 
man let down the steps, and aided her out. The gate-keeper 
retired into a sort of sentry-box, and amused himself by 
peeping over the window-curtain, laughing very immode- 
rately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a very 
grave appearance when anything having a shade of comical- 
ity occurred. 

The warden very politely conducted Julia into his office, 
and soon after into the jail. It was a long building inside 
of a building, with two rows of cells one above the other, 
each numbered, and upon each door a card, upon which was 
written, in characters only known to the officers of the prison, 
the prisoner's name, crime, term of imprisonment, and gen- 
eral conduct whilst confined. 

As Mr. Lang was waiting trial, he was not in one of these 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 25 

cells, but in one of large dimensions, and containing more 
conveniences. 

As they entered, he was seated at a small table, with pen, 
ink and paper, engaged in writing. He did not at first rec- 
ognize his child, but in a moment sprang to her, and clasp- 
ing her in his arms, said, "My child." 

Such a change in him needs some explanation. 

After being committed to prison, his first thought was 
upon the change of his condition from what it formerly was ; 
and his first resolution was to reform. He thought of the 
deep plots he and his companion had laid to amass a fortune ; 
but, supposing that the latter would be convicted, and con- 
demned to serve a long time in confinement, he concluded 
that that scheme was exploded. 

"Yet," thought he, " if there be none on earth I can call my 
friends, — if my family forsake me (yet just would it be in them 
should they reject my company), — of what avail would my 
reformation be, except to a few dogging creditors, who would 
jeer and scofif at me at every corner, and attempt to drive me 
ba.ck to my present situation 7 . It might be some satisfaction to 
them to see me return ; but what feelings would it arouse 
within me, — with what hatred would I ' view mankind ! 
No; if none will utter a kind wQfd to me, let me con- 
tinue on ; let the prison be my home, and the gallows my 
end, rather than attempt to reform while those who were 
once my friends stand around to drive me back by scoffing 
remarks ! " 

Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He 
would return, but none stood by to welcome him. A few 
had visited him, most of whom had severely reflected upon 
his misdeeds. They opened a dark prospect for him in the 
future. " Now," said they, " you must here remain; re- 
ceive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warning to 
others not to follow in your steps, kst they arrive at the 
3 



26 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

same goal." Was there encouragement in this? Surely 
not ; he deemed them not the words of friendship, and he' 
was right m his judgment. 

"Why did you visit this dark prison?" inquired Mr. 
Lang. 

" Because you are here, flither ! " -was the artless reply. 

" And could you forgive your father ? Ho^Y could you 
seek him, when he forsook you ? " Mr. Lang could not 
make this last observation without becoming affected even to 
tears. 

Julia seemed to take courage ; new energies seemed to be 
imparted to her. She felt an unseen influence at her side, 
and a holy calmness resting upon her soul. 

" Prison-walls cannot bar you from my heart, though in 
the worst place on earih. Though friends laugh me to scorn 
when I seek your presence, you arc my father still, and un- 
grateful would I be did I not own you as such ! 

" In thinking of the present, I do not forget the past; 1 
remember the days of old, the years in which we were made 
glad ; — and you, father, when free from these walls, will you 
not return again to your family, and make home what it once 
was ? To-day I will see Mr. Legrange ; he wants a clerk, 
and, by a little pcrsuai^on, I am certain I can get you the 
situation. Will you not reform ? " 

She could say no more ; yet her actions spoke louder than 
words could possibly do, and her imploring attitude went' 
home to the heart of her parent. He, for the first time since 
the commencement of his wayward coui-se, felt that the hand 
of sympathy was extended to greet him, should he make a 
motion to return. And why should he not grasp it? He 
did. Theie, in that prison-cell, upon his knees, he promised 
to repent and return. 

" Pleasant residence, Miss!" said the gate-keeper, as our 
heroine left the yard, and then laughed as though he had 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 27 

committed a pun that would immortalize him from that time 
forth. 

She noticed not his ill-mannered remark, but, reentering 
tlie cawiage, thought of nothing but the joy her mother 
would feel upon learning her success, till the carriage 
stopped and the driver let down the steps. Having related 
her adventure, she left her home with the intention of seeing 
Mr. Legrange. 

]\Ir. Legrange was a merchant on Cadiz wharf; he was 
wealthy, and as benevolent as wealthy. Notices were often 
seen in the papers of large donations from him to worthy insti- 
tutions, sometimes one and sometimes three thousand dollars. 
His fellow-men looked upon him as a blessing to the age 
There was no aristocracy in him ; he did not live like a 
prince in the costliest house in the city, but a small, neat 
tenement was pointed out as his abode. Not only was he 
called the "Poor Man's Friend," but his associate and 
companion. He did not despise the poor man, and wisely 
thought that to do him good he must live and be upon an 
equality with him. 

Mr. Legrange had just opened an evening paper, when a 
light rap at his counting-house door induced him to lay it 
aside. Opening it, a young woman inquired if Mr. Legrange 
was in. 

" That is my name," was the reply. " Good-morning, 
Miss Lang." 

Julia was rejoiced that she was recognized. She had not 
spoken to Mr. Legrange since her father's failure in busi- 
ness ; previous to that sad occurrence she had known him 
personally, yet she scarcely thought he would know her 
now. 

" This is a lovely day," said Mr. Legrange, handing her 
a chair. " Your mother is well, I hope." 

" As well as might be expected; she will recover fast, 
now." 



28 HALF nOUR STORIES. 

"Indeed! What? Some glad news ? " 

"Yes, sir ; father is in the city, and has reformed.' 

" Thank God for that ! " said Mr. Legrange. " It is one 
of -the blessings of this life to hope for better days." 

" He has reformed," continued Miss Lang, "yet he may 
be led back unless he gets steady employment ; and I heard 
that " 

" that I want a clerk," said Mr. Legrange, antici- 
pating her in her remarks ; " and," continued he, "your 
father is just the man I want. I knew him in his better 
days, before a fatal misstep felled him to the ground. Miss 
Lang, lot your father call' next Tuesday ; to-morrow I start 
on a journey, and shall not return till then." 

With many sincere thanks, Julia left the room ; her heart 
overflowed with gratitude to the Giver of all things. She 
saw his hand and felt his presence. 

It was well that Mr. Legrange was about to leave the 
city, as Mr. Lang's examination was to be had the next day. 
and Mrs. Lang and her daughter confidently expected he 
Avould be ac(|uitted. 

The morrow came ; the examination began and termi- 
rijited as they had expected. William Bang was remanded 
back to prison to await his trial for robbery. Mr. Lang was 
acijuittcd, and, joining a company of friends whom Julia had 
collected, left for the residence of his family. 

What a meeting was that ! Angels could but weep for 
joy at such a scene, and drop their golden harps to wipe 
away their tears of gladness. Long had been their separa- 
tion. What scenes had the interval disclosed ! And how 
clianged were all things ! She was in health when he left, 
but now in sickness ; yet it was not strange. 

That day was the happiest he had spent for many months, 
and he rejoiced that an angel of light, his daughter, had 
sought him out. She had been, indeed, a ministering spirit 



SAVED BY KINDNESS. 29 

of good to him, and in the happy scene then around her she 
found her reward, — 0, how abundant ! 

With a light and joyous step did Henry Lang repair to 
the store of Mr. Legrange. The sun's rays were just peer- 
ing over the house-tops, and he thought that he, like that 
sun, was just rising from degradation to assume new life, and 
put forth new energy. 

We need not lengthen out our tale by narrating what 
there ensued. He that day commenced his clerkship, and to 
this day holds it. He often received liberal donations from 
his employer in token of his regard for him, and by way of 
encouraging him in his attempts to regain his lost fortune. 
****** 

It was on a December evening that a family circle had 
gathered around their fireside. The wild wind whistled furi- 
ously around, and many a poor wight lamented the hard fate 
that led him abroad to battle the storm. " Two years ago 
this night," said the man, "where was I? In an obscure 
house, planning out a way to injure a fellow-man ! Yea, 
would you believe it 7 the very man who has since been my 
benefactor, — my employer ! " 

The door-bell rang, and the conversation was abruptly ter- 
minated. 

In a few minutes none other than Mr. Legrange entered ; 
he received a hearty welcome, and was soon engaged in con- 
versation. 

" Mr. Lang," said he, as he was about to depart, "your 
daughter remembers receiving an anonymous letter signed 
' Charles B .' I do not say it to please my own van- 
ity, but I oi-dered my clerk to write it, and sent it by my son. 
I thought of you when you little thought you had a friend 
on earth who cared for you, and rejoice that I have been the 
humble instrument in eflfecting your reformation." 
3* 



80 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

"Here," he continued, handing him a paper, "this is 
the deed of a house on street, valued at eight thou- 
sand dollars ; accept it as a present from me to you and your 
family, and remember this, that a kind word is of more 
value than gold or precious stones. It was that which 
saved you, and by that you may save others. Good-even- 
ing; I will see you at the store to-morrow." 

Having said this, he left, waiting not to receive the thanks 
that grateful hearts desired to render him. 

And now, reader, our story is ended. If you have fol- 
lowed us thus far, neglect not to receive what we have faintly 
Dudeavored to inculcate ; and ever remember, while treading 
life's thorny vale, that " a kind word is of more value 
than gold or jyrecious stones.^' 



THE LOVE OF ELINORE. 

She stood begide the sea-shore weeping 
While above her stars were keeping 

Vigils o'er the silent deep ; 
While all others, wearied, slumbered 
She the passing moments numbered, 

She a faithful watch did keep. 

Him she loved had long departed, 
And she wandered, broken-hearted, 

Breathing songs he loved to hear. 
Friends did gather round to win her. 
But the thoughts that glowed within her 

Were to her most fond and dear. 

In her hand she held bright flowers, 
Culled from Nature's fairest bowers ; 

On her brow, from moor and heath, 
Bright green leaves and flowers did cluster 
Borrowing resplendent lustre 

From the eyes that shone beneath. 

Rose the whisper, " She is crazy," 
When she plucked the blooming daisy, 

Braiding it within her hair ; 
But they knew not what of gladness 
Mingled with her notes of sadness. 

As she laid it gently there. 

For her loved one, ere he started, 

WhUe she still was happy-hearted, 

Clipped a daisy from its stem, 



32 HALF HOUR STORIES, 

Placed it in her hair, and told her, 
Till again he should behold her, 
That should be her diadem. 

At the sea-side she was roaming, 
When the waves were madly foaming, 

And when all was calm and mild, 
Singing songs, — she thought he listened. 
And each dancing wave that glistened 

Loved she as a little child. 

For she thouglit, in every' motion 
Of the ceaseless, moving ocean, 

She could see a friendly hand 
Stretched towards the shore imploring, 
Where she stood, like one adoring. 

Beckoning to a better land. 

When the sun was brightly shining. 
When the daylight was declining. 

On the shore she 'd watch and wait, 
Like an angel, heaven-descending, 
'Mid the ranks of mortals wending, 

Searching for a missing mate. 

Years passed on, and when the morning 
Of a summer's day gave warning 

Of the sweets it held in store, 
By the dancing waves surrounded, 
Like a fairy one she bounded 

To her lover's arms once more. 

Villagers thus tell the story, 
And they say a light of glory 

Hovereth above the spot 
Where for days and years she waited. 
With a love all unabated, 

And a fliith that faltered not. 

There 's a stone that is uplifted, 
Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted ; 
Fonder words no stone e'er bore ; 



'tis sweet to be remembered. 33 

And the waves come up to greet them, 
Seeming often to repeat them, 

While afar their echoes roar — 

♦' Deathless love of Elinore." 



TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED, 



'T IS sweet to be remembered 

In the turmoil of this life, 
While toiling up its pathway, 

While mingling in its strife. 
While wandering o'er earth's borders, 

Or sailing o'er its sea, — 
'T is sweet to be remembered 

Wherever we may be. 

What though our path be rugged, 

Though clouded be our sky. 
And none we love and cherish, 

No friendly one is nigh. 
To cheer us in our sorrow. 

Or share with us our lot, — 
'T is sweet to be remembered. 

To know we 're not forgot. 

When those we love are absent 

From our hearth-stone and our side, 
With joy we learn that pleasure 

And peace with them abide ; 
And that, althtiugh we 're absent, 

We 're thought of day by day ; — 
'T is sweet to be remembered 

By those who are away. 



34 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

"When all our toils are ended, 

The conflict all is done, 
And peaoe, in sweetest accents, 

Proclaims the victory won ; 
When hushed is all the tumult, 

When calmed is all the strife. 
And we, in patience, meekly 

Await tlie end of life : 

Then they who, when not present, 

In spirit yet were near. 
And, as we toiled and struggled, 

Did whisper in our ear, 
" 'Tis sweet to be remembered, 

And thou art not forgot," 
If fortune smile upon us, 

Shall share our happy lot. 



I CALL THEE MINE. 

Yes, ever such I '11 call thee, will ever call thee mine. 
And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine ; 
And when the stars are shining in their bright home of blue, 
Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true. 

Forget thee ! no, 0, never ! thy heart and mine are one. 
How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun? 
Or he who feels its genial warmth forget the orb above ; 
Or, feeling sweet affection's power, its source — another's love? 

Go, ask the child that sleepeth upon its mother's breast 
"Whether it loves the pillow on which its head doth rest ; 
Go, ask the weary mariner, when the dangerous voyage is o'er, 
"Whether he loves the parent's smile that meets him at the door : 

But ask not if I love thee when I would call thee mine. 
For words are weak to tell thee all, and I the task resign ; 
But send thy spirit out for love, and when it liud^ its goal, 
'T will be encircled and embraced within my deepest soul. 



THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. 

There is a story about tliat old tree ; a biography of 
that old gnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches. 

Listen. 

Many, very many years ago, — there were forests then 
where now are cities, and the Indian song was borne on that 
breeze which now bears the sound of the Sabbath bell, and 
where the fire of the work-shop sends up its dense, black 
smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's wigwam arose, — 
yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a rough, 
rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old 
man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, 
from which his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beau- 
tiful that it seemed to be a dancing sunbeam rather than 
what it really was. 

The old man had been telling him of the past ; had been 
telling him that when he was a child he loved the forest, and^|» 
the rock, and the mountain stream. 

Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, 
leading him a short distance, bade him make a small hole in 
the ground and place the seed within it. He did so. And 
the old man bent over and kissed his fair brow as he smoothed 
the earth above the seed's resting-place, and told him that he 
must water it and watch it, and it would spring up and 
become a fair thing in his sight. 

'T was hard for the child to believe this ; yet he did 
believe, for he knew that his friend was true. 

Night came ; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child 



36 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

dreamed of that seed, and he had a vision of the future which 
passed v/ith the shades of the night. 

Morning daAvned, and he hastened to water and to watch 
the spot where the seed was planted. 

It had not come up ; yet he believed the good old man, 
and knew that it Avould. 

All day long he was bending Over it, or talking wath his 
aged companion about the buried seed. 

A few days passed, then a little sprout burst from the 
ground ; and the child clapped his hands, and shouted and 
danced. 

Daily it grew fairer in the sight of the child, and rose 
higher and higher. And the old man led him once more to 
the spot, and told him that even so would the body of his 
little sister rise from the grave in which a short time before 
it had been placed, and, rising higher and higher, it would 
never cease to ascend. 

The old man wept ; but the child, with his tiny white 
hand, brushed away his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, 
said that if his sister arose she would go to God, for God was 
above. 

Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson 
oi^^he would have taught the child came from the child to him, 
and made his soul glad. 

A few weeks passed, and the old man died. 

The child wept ; but, remembering the "good friend's les- 
son, he wiped away his tears, and wept no more ; for the 
seed had already become a beautiful plant, and every day it 
went upward, and he knew that, like that, his sister and his 
good friend would go higher and higher towards God. 

Days, weeks, months, years passed away. The plant had ■ 
grown till it was taller than he who had planted it. 



THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON. 37 

Years fled. The child was no more there, but a young 
man sat beneath the shade of a tree, and held a maiden's 
nand in his own. Her head reclined on his breast, and her 
eyes upturned met the glances of his towards her, and they 
blended in one. 

"I remember," said he, "that when I was young a good 
old man, who is now in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade 
me put a little seed in the earth. I did so. I watched the 
ground that held it, and soon it sprang up, touched by no 
hand, drawn forth, as it would seem, from its dark prison by 
the attractive power of the bright heaven that shone above it. 
See, now, what it has become ! It shades and shelters us. 
God planted in my heart a little seed. None but he could 
plant it, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang 
up, drawn forth by the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou 
art shadowed and sheltered by it." 

There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the 
branches bowed assent to the young man's words. 

Time drove his chariot on; his sickle- wheels smote to 
earth many brave and strong,, yet the tree stood. The winds 
blew fiercely among its branches ; the lightning danced and 
quivered above and around it ; the thunder muttered forth 
its threatenings ; the torrent washed about its roots ; yet it 
stood, grew strong and stately, and many a heart loved »t 
for its beauty and its shade. 

The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered 
crowds of stalwart men. There was the mechanic, with 
upturned sleeves and dusty apron ; the farmer, fanning 
himself with a dingy straw hat ; the professional man and 
trader, arguing the unrighteousness of " taxation without 
representation." 

Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered 
as a young man ascended a platform erected beneath the tree. 
4 



38 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

In a soft, low voice, he began. A3 he proceeded, his voice 
grew louder, and his eloquence entranced his auditors. 

"Years ago," said he, "there were an old man and a 
young child. And the child loved the man, and the man 
loved the child, and taught him a lesson. He took him by 
the hand, and, leading him aside, gave him a seed and told 
him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It became 
mighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came unto 
it. That old man went home; but here stands the child, 
and here the tree, great and mighty now, but the child has 
not forgotten the day when it was small and weak. So shall 
the cause we have this day espoused go on ; and though, 
to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shall increase and 
grow strong, till we become an independent nation, that shall 
shelter all who come unto it." 

The speaker ceased, and immediately the ail* resounded 
with loud shouts and huzzas. 

The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued. 
Peace rested once more upon all the land, but not as before. 
It rested upon a free people. Then, beneath that same tree, 
gathered a mighty host; and, as oft as came the second 
month of summer, in the early part of it the people there 
assembled, and thanked God for the lesson of the old tree. 

An old man lay dying. Around his bedside were his 
children and his children's children. 

"Remove the curtain,*' said he. "Open the window. 
Raise me, and let me see the sun once more." 

They did so. 

" See you yonder tree? Look upon it, and listen. I was 
a child once, and I knew and loved an old man ; and he knew 
me and loved me, and he led me aside, placed in my hand a 
tiny seed, and bade me bury it in the earth, and I did so. 
Night came, <with its shade and its dew ; day, with its sun- 



THE OLD TKEE AND ITS LESSON. 39 

ehine and its showers. And the seed sprang up, — but the 
old man died. Yet, ere he went, he had taught me the les- 
son of that seed, which was, that those who go down to the 
earth like that, will arise, like that, towards heaven. You 
are looking upon that tree which my friend planted. Learn 
from it the lesson it hath taught me." 

The old man's task was performed, his life finished, and 
the morrow's light lit the pathway of many to his grave. 
They stood beneath the shadow of that tree; and deeply 
sank the truth in every heart as the village pastor began the 
burial service and read, " I am the resurrection and the life." 



VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND 

In the silence of the midnight, 

"When the carea of day are o'er, 
In my soul I heiir the voices 

Of the loved ones gone before ; 
And they, words of comfort whispering. 

Say they '11 watch on every hand. 
And my soul is cheered in hearing 

Voices from the spirit-laud. 

In my wanderings, oft there cometb 

Suddeu stillness to my soul ; 
When around, above, within it 

Rapturous joys unnumbered roll. 
Though around me all is tumult. 

Noise and strife on every hand. 
Yet within my soul I list to 

Voices from tlie spirit-land. 

Lovev^l ones who have gone before me 

"Whisper words of peace and joy ; 
Those who long since have departed 

Tell me their divine employ 
Is to watch aud guard my footsteps, — 

! it is an augol band ! 
And I love, I love to list to 

Voices from the spirit-land. 



THE BEACON-LIGHT. 

Dimly burns the beacon-light 

On the mountain top to-night ; 

Faint as whisper ever fell, 

Falls the watcher's cry, — " All 's well ; 

For the clouds have met on high, 

And the blast sweeps angry by ; • 

Not a star is seen this night, — 

God, preserve the beacon-light ! 

Lo ! a man whom age doth bow 
Wanders up the pathway now ; 
Wistfully his eye he turns 
To the light that dimly burns ; 
And, as it less glow doth shed, 
Quicker, quicker is his tread ; 
And he prays that through the night 
God may keep the beacon-light. 

Far below him, rocks and waves 
Mark the place of others' graves ; 
Other travellers, who, like him, 
Saw the beacon-light burn dim. 
But they trusted in their strength 
To attain the goal at length ; — 
This old traveller prays, to-night, 
" God, preserve the- beacon-light ! " 

Fainter, fainter is its ray, — 
Shall its last gleam pass away ? 
Shall it be extinguished quite ? 
Shall it burn, though not as bright? 
Fervently goes up his prayer ; 
Patiently he waiteth there. 
Trusting Ilim who doeth right 
To presei-ve the beacon-light. 

4* 



42 HAIJ? llOmi STORIES. 

Lx)k you now ! tlio light hath burst 
Brighter thau it was at first ; 
Now with ton-foUl radituice glows, 
And tlic traveller homeward goes. 
As the elouds grow darker o'er liiin, 
Brighter gfows the llglit before him ; 
God, who doeth all things right. 
Hath preserved tlio beaeou-light. 

Thus upon the p;ith we tread 
God a guiding light hath sheil ; 
Thougli at times our hearts are weary, 
Tliough the path wo tread is dreary, 
Though the bejvoou's lingering ray 
Seems as if 't would piss away, — 
Be our prayer, througli all the night, 
" God, preserve the beacon-light '"' 

Threatening clouds may gather o'er us, 

Countless dangera rise before us : 

If in God we seek for strength, 

lie will succor us at length : 

Ho his holy light will send, 

To conduct us to tlie end. 

Trust thy God, thi-ough day and night, 

Ho '11 preserve thi/ beacon-light. 



BEAR Ur 



Bk.\r up, bear up, though Poverty may press thee , 

There 's not a tlower that 's crushed that does not shed, 
"While bowing low, its fraginmce fortli to bless thee. 
At tinier, more sweet thau when it raised its head 
When sunliglit gathereii round it, 
"VThen de\\-s of even crowned it, 
By nature nursed, and watched, and from its bounty fed 



A WELCOME TO SPRING. 43 

Bear up, bear up ! 0, never yield nor falter ! 

Cod reigncth ever, merciful and just ; 
If thou despaircst, go thou to hia altar, 
Rest on his arm, and in his promise trust. 
There Hope, bright Hope, will meet thee ; 
There Joy, bright Joy, shall greet thee ; 
And thou ehalt rise to thrones on high from out the dust. 



A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING 

SnouT a vrelcoming to Spring ! 

Hail its early buds and flowers ! 
It is hastening on to bring 

Unto us its joyous hours. 
Birds on bough and brake are singing, 
All the new-clad woods are ringing ; 
In the brook, see Nature flinging 

Beauties of a thousand dyes, 
As if jealous of the beauties 

Mantling the skies. 

Hail to Beauty ! Hail to Mirth ! 

All Creation's song is gladness ; 
Not a creature dwells on earth 

God would liave bowed down in sadness ! 
Everything this truth is preaching, 
God in all his works is teaching. 
As if man by them beseeching 

To be glad, for he doth bless ; 

And to trust him, for he 's mighty 

In his tenderness. 



THE HOPE OE THE EALLEN. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was at the close of a beautiful autumnal day that Ed- 
ward Dayton was to leave the place of his nativity. For 
many years he had looked forward, in joyous anticipation, to 
the time when he should repair to the city, and enter upon 
the business of life. And now that that long looked-for 
and wished-for day had arrived, when he was to bid an adieu 
to the companions of his youth, and to all the scenes of his 
childhood, it was well for him to cast a retrospective glance ; 
and so he did. 

Not far distant, rearing its clear white steeple far above 
the trees, stood the village church, up the broad, uncar- 
peted aisle of which he had scores of times passed ; and, as 
the thought that he might never again enter those sacred 
walls came to his mind, a tear glistened in his eye that he 
could not rudely wipe away. 

Next was the cot of the pastor. He had grown old in 
the service of his Master, and the frosts of nearly three-score 
winters rested their glory upon his head. All loved and re- 
spected him, for with them he had wept, and with them he 
had rejoiced. Many had fallen around him ; withered age 
and blooming youth he had followed to the grave ; yet he 
stood forth yet, and, with clear and musical voice, preached 
the truths of God. 

An old gray building, upon whose walla. the idler's knife 
had carved many a rude inscription, was the village school. 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 45 

There, amid those carvings, were seen the rough-hewn ini- 
tials of many a man now " well-to-do in the world." Seine, 
high above the rest, seemed as captains, and almost over- 
shadowed the diminutive ones of the -little school-boy, placed 
scarce thirty inches from the ground. 

Edward was a j)et among the villagers. He had taken the 
lead in all the frolickings, and many a bright-eyed lass 
would miss his presence, and loud, clear laugh, at the com- 
ing " huskings."' 

Young and old reluctantly bade him " good-by," and, as 
the stage wound its circuitous way from the village, from 
many a heart ascended a prayer that He who ruleth over all 
would prosper and protect him. 

" Good luck to him, God bless him ! " said dame Brandon, 
as she entered the house. "He was always a kind, well- 
meant lad," she continued, "and dame Brandon knows no 
evil can befall him ; and Emily, my dear, you must keep 
your eye on some of the best fruit of the orchard, for he 
will be delighted with it, and much the more so if he knows 
your bright eyes watched its growth and your hands gath- 
ered it." 

These words were addressed to a girl of seventeen, who 
stood at an open window, in quite a pensive mood. She 
seemed not to hear the remark, but gazed in the direction 
the stage had passed. 

The parents of Edward had died when he was quit^ 
young, and he, their only child, had been left to the car^ 
and protection of dame Brandon ; and well had she cared for 
him, and been as a mother to the motherless. 

" Now, Emi', don't fret! Edward won't forget you. I've 
known him long ; he has got a heart as true as steel." 

'T was not this that made her sad. She had no fears 'ihat 
he would forget his Emi', but another thought pressed heav- 
ily on her mind, and she said, 



46 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" But, aunt J, citj life is one of danger. Temptations are 
there we little think of, and stronger hearts than Edward's 
have quailed beneath their power.'' 

" Well done ! " quoth Mrs. B., looking over her glasses; 
"a sermon, indeed, quite good for little you. But ^rls are 
timid creatures ; they start and are frightened at the least 
unusual sound." She assumed a more serious manner, and, 
raising her finger, pointing upwards, said, "But know you 
not there is a Power greater than that of which you speak? " 

Emily seemed to be cheered by this thought. She 
hummed over a favorite air, and repaired to the performance 
of her evening duties. 

Emily Brandon was a lovely creature, and of this Ed- 
ward Dayton was well aware. He had spent his early days 
with her. His most happy hours had been passed in her 
company. Together they had frolicked over the green 
fields, and wandered by their clear streams. Hours passed 
as minutes when in each other's company ; and, when sepa- 
rated, each minute seemed an hour. 

Now, for the first time, they were separated ; and ever 
and anon, as she passed about at her work, she cast a fitful 
glance from the window, as if it were possible he might 
return. 

How she wished she could have gone with him, to gently 
chide when sinners should entice, and lead him from error's 
path, should gay temptation lure him therein ! She was 
young in years, yet old in discretion ; and had a heart that 
yearned for the good of all. 

" Well, aunt," said she. I hope good luck will betide him, 
but sad thoughts vill come when I think of what he will 
have to bear up under." 

" 0, hush ! " said the old lady ; " simple girls have simple 
stories." 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 47 



CHAPTER II. 

It was a late hour in the evening that the coach entered 
the metropolis. Eailroads were not then in vogue, and 
large baggage- waggons, lumbering teams and clumsy coaches, 
were drawn bj two or more horses, over deep-rutted roads, 
and almost endless turnpikes. 

The bells had rang their nine o'clock peal ; most of the 
stores were closed ; the busy trader and industrious mechanic 
had gone to their respective homes, and left their property 
to faithful watchers, whose muffled forms moved slowly 
through the streets of the great city. 

Not all had left their work ; for, by the green and crim- 
son light that streamed from his window, and served to par- 
tially dissipate the darkness, it was seen that he of pestle 
and mortar labored on, or, wearied with his labor, had Ellen 
asleep, but to be awakened by the call of some customer, 
requesting an antidote for one of the many " ills which flesh 
is heir to." 

Other open places there were, whose appearance indicated 
that they were bar-rooms, for at their windows stood decan- 
ters filled with various-colored liquids. Near each of these 
stood a wine-glass in an inverted position, with a lemon upon 
it ; yet, were not any of these unmistakable signs to be seen, 
you would know the character of the place by a rumseller's 
reeling sign, that made its exit, and, passing a few steps, fell 
into the gutter. 

In addition to these other signs, were seen scattered about 
the windows of these places, in characters so large that he 
who ran might read, "Bar-room," "Egg-pop," " N. E. 
Rum," etc. 

Those were the days of bar-room simplicities. " Saloons " 
were not then known. The refined names which men of the 
present day have attached to rum, gin and brandy, were 



48 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

not then in use. There were no "Wormwood-floaters" to- 
embitter man's life, and Jcwett had not had his " fancy." 

The coach rolled on, and in a short time Edward was 
safely ensconced in a neatly-furnished room in a hotel known 
as " The Bull's Horn." It was indeed a great disadvantage 
to him that he came to a city in which he was a total stran- 
ger. He had no acquaintance to greet him with a friendly 
welcome ; and the next day, as he was jostled by the crowd, 
and pushed aside by the hurried pedestrian, he realized what 
it was to be a stranger in a strange land, and an indescrib- 
able sensation came upon him, known only to those who 
have been placed in similar circumstances. 

He looked around,— strange forms met his view. No 
one greeted him, no hand of friendship was held forth to 
welcome him. All the world seemed rushing on for some- 
thing, he knew not what ; and, disheartened at the apparent 
seJSshness that pervaded society, he returned to his room, 
and wished for the quietness of his own sweet village, the 
companionship of his own dear Emi'. 

The landlord of the tayern at which our hero had housed 
himself was a stout, burly man, and quite communicative. 
From him Edward learned much of importance. Mr. Blinge 
was his name. He was an inveterate smoker, and his jjet 
was a little black pij)e, dingy and old, and by not a few 
deemed a nuisance to "The Bull's Horn." This beheld 
between his teeth, and, seating himself behind his bar, "puffed 
away on the high-pressure principle. 

Edward had not been many minutes in his room before 
Mr. Blinge entered with his pet in his mouth, hoped he 
did n't intrude, apologized, and wished hinl to walk below, 
saying that by so doing he might become acquainted with 
some '•'- rare souls T 

By "below" was meant a large, square room, on the. 
ground floor, of dimensions ample enough to hold a caueus 



TUE HOPE OP THE FALLEN. 49 

in. By some it was called a " bar-room," by others the 
" sitting-room," and others the " gentlemen's parlor." 

Entering, Edward encountered the gaze of about twenty 
individuals. Old gentlemen with specs looked beneath 
theni; and young gentlemen with papers looked above them, 
A young man in white jacket and green apron was endeav- 
oring to satisfy the craving appetites of two teamsters, who 
were loudly praising the landlord's brandy, and cursing the 
bad state of the roads in a manner worthy of "our army 
in Flanders." 

One young man, in particular, attracted the attention of 
our hero He was genteelly dressed, and possessed an air 
of dignity and self-command, that would obtain for him at 
once the good will of any. Edward was half inclined to 
believe his circumstances to be somewhat similar to his own. 
He was reading an evening paper, but, on seeing our hero 
enter, and judging from his manner that he was a stranger, 
laid it aside, and, politely addressing himself to him, inquired 
after his health. 

The introduction over, they engngcd in conversation. The 
young man seemed pleased in making his acquaintance, and 
expressed a hope that a friendship so suddenly formed might 
prove lasting and beneficial to each. 

"I also am from the country," said he, after Edward had 
informed him of his history, "and, like you, am in search 
of employment. Looking over the evening paper, I noticed 
an advertisement of a concern for sale, which I thought, as 
I read, would be a capital chance to make a fortune, if I 
could find some one to invest in it with me. I will read it to you. 

' 'For Sale. — The stock and stand of a Confectioner, with 
a good business, well established. One or two young men will 
.find this a rare opportunity to invest their money advan- 
tageously. For other particulars inquire at No. 7 Cresto-st.' 
5 



50 HALF IIOUll STORIES, 

"Now, I tell you what," said the young man, btfore Ei- 
ward had an opportunity to utter a word, "it is a fine 
chance. Why, Lagrange makes enough on his Avines and 
fancy cordials to clothe and feed a regiment. Just pass 
there, some evening, and you will see a perfect rush.. Soda- 
water, ice creams, and French wines, are all the rage, and La- 
grange is' the only man in this city that can suit the bon. ton ! " 

" You half induce me to go there," said Edward. " How 
far is it from this place ] " 

"Not far, but it is too late; to-morrow morning wo will 
go there. Here, take my card — Othro Treves is my name , 
you must have known my father ; a member of Congress for 
ten years, when he died ; — rather abused his health — at- 
tended parties at the capital — •. drank wine to excess — took 
a severe cold — fell ill one day, worse the next, sick the 
next, and died soon after. Wine is bad when excessively 
indulged in; so is every good thing." 

Edward smiled at this running account of his new-formed 
acquaintance, and, bidding him "good-night," betook himself 
to his chamber, intending to accompany Othro to the confec- 
tioner's m the morniniA. 



CHAPTER III. 

The next morning the sun shone bright and clear in a 
cloudless sky, and all Mere made joyous by its gladsome rays. 

Edward was awakened at an early hour by the departure, 
or preparations to depai-t, of the two teamsters, who, having 
patronized rather freely the young man in white jacket and 
green apron, were in a delightful mood to (ojoy a joke, and 
were making themselves quite merry as they harnessed up 
their sturdy horses. 

It was near nine when Otliro and Edward found thera- 
nelves on the way to the confectioner's. Edward was glad 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 51 

an account of finding one -whom he thought he could trust as 
a friend, and congratulated himself on his good luck. 

Near the head of Cresto-street jmight have been seen, not 
many years since, over the door of a large and fashionable 
store, a sign-board bearing this inscription: " M. Lagrange, 
Confectioner and Dealer in Wines and Cordials." We say 
't \vas "large and fashionable;" and those of our readers 
who recollect the place of Avhich we speak will testify to the 
truth of our assertion. 

Its large windows, filled with jars of confectionary and 
preserves, and with richly-ornamented bottles of wine, with 
the richest pies and cake strewed around, presented a showy 
and inviting a})pearance, and a temptation to indulge, too 
powerful to resist, by children of a larger growth than lisping 
infants and primary-school boys. Those who daily passed 
this store looked at the windows most wistfully ; and this Avas 
not all. for, at their weekly reckonings, they found that 
several silver "bits" had disappeared very mysteriously 
during the previous seven days. 

To this place our hero and his newly-formed acquaintance 
were now hastening. As -they drew near, quite a bevy of 
ladies made their exit therefrom, engaged in loud conversation. 

"Lor! " said one, "it is strange Lagrange advertised to 
sell out." 

"Why, if I was his wife," said another, "I 'd whip him 
into my traces, I would; an' he should n't sell out unless 
I was willin', — no. he shouldn't! Only think, Miss Fitz- 
gabble, how handy those wines would be when one has a 
social soul step in ! " 

"0, yes," replied Miss Fitzgabble, "and those jars of 
lozenges ! How enchantingly easy to elevate the lid upon a 
Sabbath morn, slip in one's hand, and subtract a few ! How 
I should smell of sassafras, if / was Mrs. Lagrange ! " 

The ladies passed on, and were soon out of hearing. Ed- 



52 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Wcard and bis companion entered the store, where about a 
dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated, discussing the 
fashions, forging scandal, and sipping wine. 

Mr. Lagrange was actively engaged when the two entered; 
but, seeing them, and supposing them to have called on the 
business for which they actually had called, he called to one 
of the attendants to fill his place, and entered into conversa- 
tion with ]\Iessrs. Dayton and Treves, which in due time 
was terminated, they agreeing to call again the next day. 

. First impressions are generally the most lasting. Those 
EdAvard and Othro received during their visit and subse- 
quent conversation were favorable to the purchase. 

On their return they consulted together for a long time, 
and finally concluded to go that day, instead of waiting till 
the next, and make Mr. Lagrange an oifer of which they had 
no doubt he would accept. 

Mr. Lagrange's cbief object in selling out was that he 
might disengage himself from business. He had been a long 
time in it ; he was getting somewhat advanced in life, and 
had accumulated sufficient to insure him against want, and 
he deemed it best to step out, and give room to the young — 
an example worthy of general imitation. 

That the business Avas profitable there could be no doubt. 
As Othro had said, the profit on the wines was indeed 
immense. 

On pleasant evenings the store was crowded ; and, as it 
was filled with the young, gay, and fashionable of wealthy 
rank, not much difficulty Avas experienced in obtaining these 
large profits. 

The return of the young men was not altogether unex- 
.pccted by JNIr. Lagrange. He was ready to receive them. 
He set before them his best wines. They drank freely, 
praised the wine, and extolled the store, for they thought it 
admirably calculated to make a fortune in. 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 53 

Mr. Lagrange imparted to them all the information they 
desired. They made him an offer, which he accepted, after 
some thought : and arrangements were entered into by which 
Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to take possession on the 
morning of the following Monday. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Ko one commences business without the prospect of suc- 
cess. Assure a man he will not succeed, and he will be cau- 
tious of the steps he takes, if, indeed, he takes any. 

If he does not expect to gain a princely fortune, he expects 
to earn a comfortable subsistence, and, at the same time, 
accumulate enough to shelter him in a rainy day, and be 
enabled to walk life's busy stage in comfort and respecta- 
bility, and, as occasion may demand, relieve the wants of his 
less fortunate brethren. 

For this all hope, yet the experience of thousands shows 
that few, very few, ever reahze it. On the contrary, disap- 
pointment, in its thousand malignant forms, starts up on 
every hand ; yet they struggle on, and in imagination see 
more prosperous days in the future. Thus they hope against 
hope, till the green sod covers their bodies, and they leave theit 
places to others, whilst the tale is told in these few words : 
" They lived and died." 

The next Monday the citizens were notified, by the removal 
of his old sign, that ]Mr. Lagrange had retired from business. 
During the day, many of Mr. Lagrange's customers came 
in, that they might become acquainted with the successors 
of their old friend. To these Messrs. Dayton and Treves 
were introduced, and from them received promise of support. 

A colored man, who had been for a long time in the 
employ of Mr. Lagrange, was retained in the employ of the 
store. EalpL Orton was his name. He having been for a 



54 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

long time in the store, and during that time having had free 
access to the wines, had formed an appetite for them, in con- 
sequence of which he was often intoxicated. 

ills inebriation was periodical, and not of that kind whose 
subjects are held in continual thraldom ; yet. to use his own 
words, " when he was drunk, he was drunk, and no mis- 
take.'' He obeyed the old injunction of "what is worth 
doing is worth doing well," and as long as he got drunk he 
gut well drunk. 

He had ofttimes been reasoned with in his days of sober- 
noss, and had often promised to reform ; but so many around 
him drank that he could not resist the temptation to drink 
also, and therefore broke his promise. This habit had so 
fastened itself upon him, that, like one in the coil of the ser- 
pent, the more he strove to escape the closer it held him. 

If there is any one habit to which if a man becomes 
attached he will find more difficulty to escape from than 
another, it is that of intemperance ; yet all habits are so one 
with our nature that the. care taken to guard against the 
adoption of evil ones cannot be too great. 

liehold that man ! He was tempted, — he yielded. He has 
surrendered a noble estate, and squandered a large fortune. 
Once he had riches and friends ; his eye sparkled with the 
fire of ambition ; hope and joy beamed in each feature of his 
manly countenance, and all bespoke for him a long life and 
hap{>y death. Look at him now ! without a penny in his 
l)ocket, a wretched outcast, almost dead with starvation. 
Hibit worked the change — an evil habit. 

Perchance some one in pity may bestow a small sum upon 
him. Utterly regardless of the tact that his wife and chil- 
dren are at home shivering over a few expiring embers that 
give no warmth, without a crumb to appease their hunger, 
and although he himself a moment before believed that if aid 
iid not come speedily he must perish, he hastens to the 



THE nOrE OF THE FALLEN. 55 

nearest groggcry, and, laying down his money, calls for that 
Nvhich has brought upon him and his such woe. 

If there is any scene upon earth over which demons joy, it 
must be when that rumseller takes iJiat money. 

This propensity of Ralph's was a serious objection to him 
as a servant ; yet, in every other respect, he Avas all that 
could be desired. He was honest, faithful and obliging, and, 
knowing as they did that he was well acquainted with the 
trade of the city, and could go directly to the houses of Mr. 
Lagrange's customers, Messrs. Dayton and Treves were 
induced to have him remain. 

At the end of a month, Edward found himself in pros- 
perous circumstances, and wrote to his old village friends of 
the- fact. They, as a matter in course, were overjoyed in 
the reception of such intelligence, and no one more so than 
Emily Lawton. 

Edward had entered into a business in which tempta- 
tions of a peculiar nature gathered about him. Like nearly 
every one in those days, he had no scruples against the use 
of wine. He thought no danger was associated with its' use ; 
and, as an objection against that would clash with the interests 
of his own pecuniary affairs, he would be the last to raise it. 

In dealing forth to others, how strong came the temptation 
to deal it to himself! Othro drank, and pronounced a certain 
kind of wine a great luxury. Edward could not (or, at 
least, so ho thought) do otherwise ; and so he drank, and 
Dronounced the same judgment upon it. 

"What say you for an evening at the theatre?" said 
Othro, one evening, as they were passing from their place of 
business, having left it in care of their servants. "At the 
Gladiate the play is ' Hamlet,' and Mr. Figaro, from the old 
Drury, appears." 

Edward had been educated in strict puritanic style, and 
had been taught to consider the theatre as a den of iniquity. 



56 HALT HOUR STORIES. 

It is not our purpose to defend or oppose this opinion. It 
was bis, and he freely expressed it. In fact, his partner 
knew it to be such before making the request. 

"I suppose," said Mr. Treves, ''jou oppose the theatre 
on account of the intoxicating drinks sold there. Xow, I am 
for a social drop occasionally. Edward, a glass of pure 
^Cog-niar.' a nice cigar, and a seat in front of a grate of 
blazing coal, and I '11 be joyful. '" 

" You may be joyful, then," replied ^Ir. Dayton; "'but 
your joy might be changed to grief, and your buoyancy of 
spirit be turned to sadness of heart." 

"Indeed, Edward! Quite a lecture, I declare ! Been 
studying theology, eh ? "• 

'•■ Xot so; you are mistaken. Othro," &\id he. " There,"' 
he continued, pointing to a reeling sot that passed them, 
" ask that man where he first went for joy, and he may tell 
you of the theatre, or of social glasses of brandy, cigars, and 
such like." 

They had now arrived in front of the '' Gladiate," a mas- 
sive stone structure, most brilliantly illuminated. Long 
rows of carriages stood in front, and crowds of the gay and 
fashionable were flocking in. 

All was activity. Hackraen snapped their whips. Boys, 
ragged and dirty, were waidug for the time when "checks"' 
would circulate, and, in fi\ct, were in much need of c/iecks, 
but those of a dift'oreut nature from those they so eagerly 
looked for. 

Anon, the crowd gtithered closer ; and the prospect of a 
fight put the boys in hysterics of delight, and their rags into 
givat commotion. To tlieir sorrow, it was but the shadow of 
a "row"'; and tJiey kicked and cufled each otker, in oixier to 
express their grief 

A large poster announced in flaming characters that that 
night was the last but t\YO of Mr. Fig-aro's appearance, and 



TUE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 57 

that other engagements would prevent him from prolonging 
his stay, however much the public might desire him to do so ; 
•whilst, if the truth had been told, the public would have 
known that a printer was that moment " working oflf •' other 
posters, announcing a rciingagement of Mr. Figaro for two 
weeks. 

" Will you enter ?" inquired Othro. Edward desired to 
be excused, and they parted ; one entering the theatre, the 
other repairing to his home. 

CHAPTER V. 

The " tavern " at Avhich our hero boarded was of the conn- 
try, or, rather, the colony order of architecture, — for piece 
had been added to piece, until what was once a small shed 
was now quite an extensive edifice. 

As was tlie case with all taverns in those days, so also Avith 
this, — the bar-room was its most prominent feature. Mr. 
Blinge, the landlord, not only smoked, but was an inveterate 
lover of raw whiskey, which often caused him to perforni 
strange antics. The fact that he loved whiskey was not 
strange, for in those days all drank. The aged drank his 
morning, noon and evening potations, because he had always 
done so ; the young, because his father did ; and the lisp- 
ing one reached forth its hands, and in childish accents called 
for the " t hit gar, '^ and the mother, unwilling to deny it that 
which she believed could not harm it, gave. 

Those were the days when seed was being sown, and now 
the harvesting is in progress. Vain were it for us to attempt 
its description ; you will see it in ruined families, where are 
gathered blasted hopes, withered expectations, and pangs, 
deep pangs of untold sorrow. 

The child indulged has become a man, yet scarce worthy 
of the name ; for a habit has been formed that has sunken him 



68 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

below the brute, and he lives not a help, but a burden, not a 
blessing, but a curse, to his fellow-men. 

Although Edward was opposed to the use of intoxicating 
drinks, his business led him to associate with those who held 
opposite opinions. 

Among the boarders was one, a bold, drinking, independ- 
ent sort of a man, who went against all innovations upon old 
customs with a furj worthy of a subject of hydrophobia. 

His name was "Pump." Barrel, or bottle, would have 
been more in accordance with his character ; but, as the old 
Pump had not foresight enough to see into the future, he 
did not know that he was inappropriately naming his son. 

Every Pump must have its handle, on the same principle 
that "every dog must have his day." The handle to the- 
Pump in question was a long one; 'twas " Onendago." 

" Onendago Pump " was written with red ink on the blank 
leaf of a " Universal Songster " he carried in his pocket. 

Dago, as he was called, lived on appearances ; that is, he 
acted the gentleman outwardly, but the beggar inwardly. 
He robbed his stomach to clothe his back : howbeit, his good 
outside appearance often got for him a good dinner. 

By the aid of the tailor and the barber, he wore nice cloth 
and curled hair ; and, being blessed with a smooth, oily 
voice, was enabled, by being invited to dinner here and to 
supper there, to live quite easy. 

Edward had just seated himself, when a loud rap on the 
door was heard, and in a moment Mr. Onendago Pump, with 
two bottles, entered. With a Ioav bow, he inquired as to 
our hero's health, and proposed spending an evening in his 
company. 

" Ever hear me relate an incident of the last war 7 " said 
he, as he seated himself, and placed his two bottles upon the 
side-table. 

"Never," replied Edward. 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN, 59 

'' Well, Butler was our captain, and a regular man he ; 
right up and down good fellow, — better man never held 
sword or gave an order. Well, we were quartered at — I 
don't remember where — history tells. We led a lazj life ; 
no red coats to fire at. One of the men came home, one 
night, three sheets in the wind, and the fourth bound round 
his head ; awful patriotic was he, and made a noise, and 
swore he 'd shoot every man for the good of his country. 
Well, Captain Butler heard of it, and the next day all hands 
were called. We formed a ring ; Simon Twigg, he who was 
drunk the day before, stood within it, and then and there 
Captain Butler, Avho belonged to, the Humane Society, and 
never ordered a man to be flogged, lectured him half an hour. 
Well, that lecture did Mr. Dago Pump immense good, and 
ever since I haven't drank anything stronger than brandy. 

" Never a man died of brandy ! " said Mr. Pump, with 
much emphasis. " Brandy 's the word ! "' and, without say- 
ing more, he produced a cork-screw, and with it opened a 
bottle. 

A couple of glasses soon made their appearance. " Now, 
you will take a glass Avith mc," said Dago; " it is the pure 
Cogniac, quality one, letter A." 

" Drink, now,' said he, pushing a glass towards him. 
" Wine is used by the temperance society. They '11 ijse 
brandy soon. Ah, they can't do without their wine, and 
urn can't do without m^ brandy ! They want to bind us in 
a free country, what my father bled and almost died for, — 
bind us to drink cold water ! " said Mr. Pump, sneeringly. 
" Let 'em try it ! I go for freedom of the press, — universal, 
everlasting, unbounded freedom ! " 

When this patriotic bubble had exploded and the mist 
cleared away, he sang a bacchanalian song, which he wished 
every free man in the world would commit to memory, 
" What is the difference," said he, '' between this and wine? 



60 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Neither will hurt a man ; it is your rum-drinking, gin-guz- 
zling topers that are harmed; — anything will harm them. 
Who ever heard of a genteel wine or brandy drinker becoming 
a pest to society '1 Who ever heard of such an one rolling in 
the mire 'I No ; such men are able to take care of them- 
selves. Away with the pledge ! " 

"Perhaps you are right," replied Edward; "yet we 
should be careful. Although all around me drink, I have 
until this moment abstained from the use of brandy ; but 
now, at your request, I partake of it. Remember, if I, by 
this act, am led into habits of intemperance, if I meet a 
drunkard's grave^ the blame lo'ill rest upon you?'' 

" Ha, ha, ha ! Well done ! So be it ! I ' 11 shoulder the 
blame, if a respectable man like you falls by brandy." 

Edward drank the contents of a glass, and, placing it upon 
the table, said " We must be careful ! " 

"True!" said Mr. Pump, as he again filled the glass ; 
" we cannot be too much so. We must avoid rum and gin as 
we would a viper ! How I abhor the very name of rum, ! 
0, Mr. Dayton, think of the misery it has brought upon man ! 
I had a sister once, a beautiful, kind-hearted creature. She 
was married to an industrious man; all was fair, prospects 
bright. By degrees he got into bad company ; he forgot his 
heme, loved rum more than that, became dissipated, died, 
and filled a drunkard's grave ! She, poor creature, went into 
a fever, became delirious, raved day after day, and, heaping 
curses upon him-wdio sold her husband rum, died. Since 
then, I have looked upon rum as a curse ; but brandy, — it is 
ia gentle stimulant, a healthy beverage, a fine drink, and it 
can do no harm." 

Onendago swallowed the contents of his glass, and Edward, 
who, having taken the first, found it very easy to take the 
second, did the same. Yet his conscience smote him ; he felt 
that he was doing wrong. 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 61 

Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed by the 
serpent's glistening ejes, falls an easj prey to its crushing 
embrace, was he at that moment. He the bird, unconscious 
of the danger behind the charm. 

I'his is no fictitious tale. Would to Heaven it contained 
less of truth ! The world has seen many men like "Mr. 
Pump," and many have through their instrumentality fallen ; 
many not to rise till ages shall have obliterated all memory 
of the past, with all its unnatural loves ! Whilst otheis, 
having struggled on for years, have at length seen a feeble 
ray of light penetrating the dark clouds that overshadowed 
their path, which light continued to increase, till, in all its 
beauty, the star of temperance shone forth, by which they 
strove ever after to be guided. 

It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left. The two had 
become quite sociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his 
brandy in the unusual gayety of Edward. 

The latter was not lost to reflection ; and now that he was 
alone, thoughts of home, his business, and many other mat- 
ters, came confusedly into his mind. 

Letters he had received of warning and advice. He took 
them in his hands, looked over their contents, and with feel- 
ings of sadness, and somewhat of remorse, thouglit of his 
ways. 

A bundle of old letters ! A circle of loved friends ! How 
alike ! There is that's pleasant, yet sad, in these. How viv- 
idly they present to our view the past ! The writers, some, 
perhaps, are dead ; others are far away. Yet, dead or alive, 
near or far distant, we seem to be with them as we read their 
thoughts traced out on the sheet before us. 

As Edward read here and there a letter, it did seem as 
though his friends stood beside him, and spoke words of 
advice which conscience whispered should be heeded. Love 
was the theme of not a few, yet all warned lim to flee from 



G2 IIAIJF IlOrR STORIES. 

evil, lie returned the parcel, and, as he did so, ho pledged 
himself that if he drank anj it should be with moderation: 
and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous etl'ects, to abstain 
altogether. 

The next morning Oihro was late at the store ; yet, when 
he arrived, he was full of praise of the play. 

" Figarc acted llandet to a cliarm," said he ; " and Fanny 
Lightfoot danced like a fairy. But two nights more ! Now,- 
Edwaid, if you do not wish to offend me, and that exceed- 
ingly, say you will go with me to-morro\Y night." 

CHAPTER VI. 

Three years had elapsed since the events of the last 
chapter. Edward had oftc^n yisited his nati\e village, and, 
as the results of these visits, Emily Lawton became Mrs. 
Dayton ; and she, with Mrs. Brandon, was removed to an 
elegantly furnished house in the city. Yet, with all its ele- 
gance, Mrs. Brandon, who had been accustomed to rural 
simplicity, did not feel happy except Wlien in lier own 
room, Avhieh Edward had ordered to be furnished in a style 
answering her own wishes. 

Messi-s. Dayton and Treves had been highly successful in 
their business operations ; and, enjoying as they did the 
patronage of the elite of the city, they, with but little stretch 
oi their imaginative powers, could see a fortune at no great 
distance. 

liccoming accpuiinted with a large number of persons of 
wealth, they were present at very many of the winter enter- 
tainments; and, being invited to drink, they had not courage 
to refuse, and did not wish to act so ungenteel and uncivil. 
Others drank ; and some loved their rum, and would have it. 
Edward had taken many steps since the events of our last 
ehapter; yet, thought be, " I drink moderately." 



THE HOPE OF TH2 FALLEN. 68 

There was to be a great party. A musical prodigy, in the 
shape of a child of ten years, had arrived, and the leaders 
of fashion had agreed upon having a grand entertainment on 
the occasion. 

Great was tlie activity and liiistle displayed, and in no 
place more than at the store of Dayton and Treves. As ill- 
luck would have it, Ralph had heen'ah.sent a week on one of 
his drunken sprefis, and liis employers were ohligcd toprocuro 
aiiollier to fill his place. 

The event was to tiike place at the house of a distinguished 
city oilicc)' ; and, as Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to pro- 
vide refreshment, their time was fully occupied. 

The papers were filled with predictions concerning it; and 
the edit<.»rs, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account 
of having been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs, Day- 
ton and Treves forgotten ; but lengthy eulogies upon their 
abilities to perform the duty a.ssigned them occupied promi- 
nent places, and " steamboat disa.sters," " horrid murders," 
and "dreadful accidents," were obliged to make room for 
these. 

In the course of human events the evening came. Ilucks 
were in demand, and the rattling of wheels and the falling 
of carriage-steps were heard till near midnight. 

Tiie chief object of attraction was a small boy, Avho had 
attained considerable proficiency in musical knowledge, not 
of any particular instrument, but anything and everything; 
conse(j[uently a large assortment of instruments had been col- 
lected, upon which he played. As music liad called them 
together, it was the employment of the evening, and the hour 
of midnight had passed when tiiey were summoned to the 
tables. 

Tliose gentlemen wiio desired had an apartment to them- 
selves, where wine and cigars circuhited freely. Some, in a 
short time, became excited ; whilst others, upon whom tho 



64 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

same cause liad a different effect, became stupid. One poor 
fellow, whose bloated countenance told a sad tale, lay almost 
senseless ; another sat dreamingly over his half-filled glass, 
whilst another excited the risibilities of not a few by his 
ineffectual attempts to light his cigar. 

Our hero, like his companions, was a little overcome by too 
frequent potations from the bottle. It was a sad sight to a 
reflective mind. The majority were young men, whose eyes 
had been blinded to the danger they were in, by adhering tc 
a foolish and injurious custom. 

As hour passed hour, they became more excited, until a 
high state of enthusiasm existed. 

^ ^ ^ -T^ -T^ ^ 

All the ladies had retired, except one, and she strove hard 
to conceal her rising sorrow by forced smiles ; yet she could 
not restrain her feelings, — her heart seemed bursting with 
grief In vain did officious servants seek to know the cause. 
To the inquiries of the lady of the house she made no reply. 
She dare not reveal the secret which pierced her very soul ; 
but, burying her face in her hands, seemed resolved upon not 
being comforted. Finally, yielding to the persuasive influ- 
ence of Mrs. Venet, she expressed her fears that Edward had 
tarried too long at the bowl. 

Mrs. Venet tried to comfort her by saying that, if what 
she so much feared ivas true, yet it was nothing uncommon ; 
and mentioned several men, and not a few ladies, who had 
been carried away in a senseless condition. 

These words did not comfort her ; on the contrary, they 
increased her fears, and led her to believe that there was 
more danger at such parties than there was generally thought 
to be; and the fact that Edward had often attended such 
parties increased her sorrow, for she knew not but that he 
had been among that number of whom Mrs. Venet spoke. 

Imagination brought to her view troubles and trials as her 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 65 

future lot , and last, not least, the thought of Edward's tem- 
perament, and of how easily he might be led astray, rested 
heavily upon her heart. Mrs. Venet at length left her, and 
repaired to the gentleman's apartment, in order to learn the 
cause of his delay. 

She knocked at the door. 

" Who in the devil 's there, with that thundering racket? " 
inquired a loud voice. 

"It is Mrs. Venet," replied the lady. 

"0, it is, is it? Well, madam, Dayton the confectioner, 
and a dozen jovial souls, are having a rare time here. Put 
that down in your memorandum-book, and leave us to our 
meditations." 

" Yes, and these to profit and loss," said another, and the 
breaking of glasses was heard. 

"If Mr. Dayton is within, tell him his lady is waiting for 
him," said Mrs. Venet. 

" Ed, your wife 's waiting," said one of the party. 

" Then, friends, I — I — I must go," said the inebriated 
man, who, though badly intoxicated, had not wholly forgotten 
her. 

Hia companions endeavored to have him .remain, but in 
vain. He unbolted the door, and, leaving, closed it upon 
them. 

Mrs. Venet, who was standing without, laid hold of his coat, 
and, knowing the excited state of Mrs. Dayton, and fearing 
that the appearance of her husband would be too much for her 
to bear, endeavored to induce him not to enter the room, or, 
at least, to wait until he had recovered frojn the effects of his 
drinking. 

He appeared rational for a while, but, suddenly breaking 
away, shouted. " Emily, where are you?" 

The sound of his voice resounded through the building, 
6* 



66 HALF nOUR STORIES. 

and his drunken companions, hearing it, made the building 
echo with their boisterous hiughter. 

He ran through the entries gazing Avildly around, and 
loudly calling for his Avife. 

The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot ; 
but neither they nor Mrs. Veilet could induce him to be- 
come quiet. 

The latter, finding she could have no influence upon him, 
repaired to the room in which she left Mrs. Dayton, and found 
her senseless upon the floor, and to all appearances dead. 
She had heard his wild cries, and what she had so much 
feared she then knew to be true. 

Mrs. Venet rang for the servants, and ordered some restora- 
tives. These were soon* obtained, and by their free use she 
had nearly recovered, Avhen her husband rushed into the 
room. 

Upon seeing his wife, the raging lion became as docile as 
a lamb. A sudden change came over him ; he seemed to 
realize the truth, and it sent an arrow to his soul. 

Again the injured wife fointed, and again the restoratives 
were faithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton 
remained in lier presence it would be difficult to restore her, 
and the man who before would not be approached was led 
quietly away. In a short time Mrs. Dayton became sensible, 
and her first words were to inquire after Edward. Being 
told, she was induced to lie down, and, if possible, enjoy a 
little sleep ; but sleep she could not. Her mind became 
almost delirious, and fears were entertained by her attend- 
ants that she would lose her reason. 

The effects of Edward's carousal were entirely dissipated 
by the sudden realization of the truth. 

To INIrs. Dayton this Avas an hour of the deepest sorrow. 
She looked back upon the past, and saw happiness ; in the 
future nothing but misery sc-3med to aAvait her. Yet a change 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 6Y 

came over her ; she thanked God for his past mercies, and 
wisely trusted him for their continuance. She implored 
pardon for past ingratitude, and j^rayed that she "might be 
more grateful in future, and that, having tasted of the cup 
of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The next morning Edward repented of his crime, and in 
his inmost soul felt it to be such, — a crime of deepest dye. 

Emily wept as she bent over him. 

" Cease thy tears," said he, " and forgive; it is but that 
word, spoken by thee, that can send peace to my soul. Yet 
what petice can I expect 7 I have wronged thee ! " — and the 
wretched man wept like a child. 

New thoughts continually sprang into existence, — the 
days of his youth, the bliss of home, and his present situa- 
tion. He felt disgraced ; — how should he redeem his char- 
acter 7 

" 0, that the grave would hide me," continued Edward, 
" and that in death I might forget this crime ! But no ! I 
cannot forget it ; it will cling to me through life, and the 
future " 

He would have said more, but the strong emotions of his 
soul choked his utterance. 

He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which 
pen cannot descri1)e. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly 
upon the face of his wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear 
dimmed the usual lustre of her eye. 

" Comfort thyself," said he; "no further evil shall come 
upon thee. It slmll never be said you are a drunkard's wife, 
—no, no, no, never ! " 

" Let us, then, forget the pa,st," said Mrs. Dayton. 

"What! forget those days when I had not tasted? 0, 



68 • HALF HOUR STORIES. 

misery indeed, if I cannot reta i their remembrance ! " said 
Edward. 

" Not so, Edward; we would remember those, but forget 
the evii that has befallen us, — all will be well." 

" Do you — can you forgive ? " 

" God will forgive ; and shall not 1 7 " 

"Then let this be a pledge of the future ;" and, taking her 
hand in his, he said, " I resolve to walk in the path of right, 
anl never more to wander, God being my witness and my 
strength." 

" 'T is well thou hast pledged thyself," said she ; " but 
know thou the tempter is on every side. Should the wine- 
cup touch thy lips, dash it aside, and proclaim yourself a 
pledged man." 

" I will ! " was the response, and, taking a pen, he boldly 
placed his name to the following pledge : 

" Pledge. — We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use 
of all intoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wi7ie, 
beer and cidet\'^ 

Such was the pledge to which he affixed his name, and 
such the pledge by which men of those days endeavored to 
stay the tide of intemperance. Did not every man who 
signed that pledge himself to become a moderate drinker ; 
and is not every moderate drinker pledged to become a 
drunkard ? What a pledge ! Yet Ave should not blame the 
men of former years for pursuing a course which they con- 
scientiously thought to be right. That was the first step. 
It was well as far as it led ; but it paused at the threshold of 
the ark of safety, and there its disciples fell. They had not 
seen, as have men of late years, the ruinous tendency of 
such a course ; and knew not, as we now do, that total absti- 
nence is the only sure course. 

The pledge Edward had signed was no preventive in hia 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 69 

case. He had tasted ; in fact, he had become a lover of strong 
drink ; and the temptation of having ifc constantly beside him, 
and daily dealing it out to others, was too strong for him to 
resist. When he drank, he did think, as Emily had bade 
him, that he was a pledged man ; but that pledge permitted 
him to drink wine. The remedy such a pledge applied was 
of no avail. It failed to reach the fountain-head, and strove 
to stop the stream by placing slight resistances in its way. 

A long time must elapse before a man can know the heart 
of his fellow-man, if, indeed, it can ever be known ; and it 
was not until Edward had become addicted to habits of intem- 
perance that he discovered the professed friendship of Mr. 
Treves to be insincere. Words of warning seldom came 
from his lips. What cared he if Ed^vard did fall 7 Such 
being the case, the business would come into his own hands ; 
and such " a consummation devoutly to be wished " it was 
very evident that if Edward did not soon reform was not far 
distant. 

Now Emily Dayton began to experience anxious days 
and sleepless nights, and Mrs. Brandon begged of Edward 
to reform. Often he would do so. He would sign that 
pledge ; but it was like an attempt to stay a torrent with 
a straw. That pledge ! 't was nothing ! yea, worse than 
nothing ! 

****** 

Six months of sorrowing passed, and what a change we 
behold ! Experience has shown to Edward that the use of 
brandy is dangerous, and good dame Brandon has been led 
to believe that there are temptations in the city which she 
little thought of 

Edward, driven from his business, revels in bar-rooms, and 
riots at midnight ; whilst the patient, uncomplaining, endur- 
ing Emily, forced by creditors from her former home, finds 
shelter from the storm in a small tenement ; where, by the 



70 HALF HOUR STORIES, 

aid of her needle, she is enabled to support herself and aged 
aunt, whilst a prattling infant plajs at her side, and, laugh- 
ing in its childish sports, thinks not of the sorrows it was 
born to encounter, and knows not the sad feelings of its 
mother's wounded heart. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

In a low, damp, dark cellar, behold a man washing the 
glasses of a groggerj. His ragged dress and uncombed hair, 
his shabby and dirty appearance, do not prevent us from 
seei)ig indications of his once having been in better circum- 
stances, and that nature never designed that he should be 
where he now is. 

Having rinsed a few cracked tumblers, he sat down beside 
a red-hot cylinder stove, and, bending over till his head 
rested upon his hands, he, in a half-audible voice, talked to 
himself 

" Here 't is, eighteen forty — some years since I saAv that 
Dayton cove ; eh, gone by the board 7 The daily papers say 
he was up for a common drunkard; but, being first time, 
was lectured and sent home. Plaguy poor home his, I reckon ! 
Wonder if the lecture did him as much good as Old Batter's 
did me. Ah ! he liked that brandy, and said I should bear 
the blame if he was ruined ; but he an't that yet. Here I am, 
ten times worse off than he is, and / an't ruined. No ! Mr. 
Dago Pump is a man yet. Well, well ! what shall I say '? 
— business awful dull, and it 's damp and dark here ; I feel 
cold 'side of this red-faced stove." 

Mr. Onendago Pump poked the fire, and continued to do 
so till a ragged little boy, without shoes, stockings or cap, 
came down the slippery steps, and asked for " two cents' 
worth of rum, and one cent's worth of crackers." 

The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw 
aside an old wire that served as a poker, and demanded pay- 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 71 

ment in advance. The child handed him the three cents, 
received his rum and crackers, and left. 

Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, 
could do so no longer ; for, persisting in his opinion that 
brandj could not hurt him, he drank so much that bad soon 
supplanted good appearances, and his company was soon 
discarded. 

Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, 
although the one drank aa much as the other, and a great 
similarity existed between them. 

He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased 
four shillings' worth of brandy, commenced business in tbe 
cellar we have alluded to, replenishing his stock by daily 
applying to a neighboring pump ; and, for every gill of 
brandy he drew fi'om the tap, poured a gill of water in at the 
bung, and thus kept up a stock in trade. 

In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily 
at his place, and Dago Pump could see no difference between 
his respectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, 
being owner of thousands, fitted up " oyster saloons," which 
places had suddenly sprung up in all large cities. 

Edward had fallen ; he had become what Avas termed a 
" common drunkard." His wife wept tears of anguish; she 
entreated ; she begged him to reform. She prayed to Heaven 
for its aid ; yet week passed week, month followed month, on 
Time's unending course, and she was a drunkard's wife still. 
All friends had forsaken her. Friends ! shall we call them 
such? No ; they did not deserve the name. Their friend- 
ship only had an existence when fortune smiled ; when a 
frown mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they 
fled. Yet God was raising up friends for her, and from a 
class of society from whom she little expected aid. God was 
working, in his mysterious way, a deliverance. He had 
heard the prayers that for many long years had gone up to 



72 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

his throne from thousands of wretched families ; and, moved 
to pit J, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy. 

Othro Treves — where is he ? Not in that elegant store ; 
it long since passed into other hands. Has- he made his for- 
tune, and retired 7 Such we might suppose to. Be tlie case, 
did we not know that he trusted to moderate drinking. M;ui 
might as well trust a leakj vessel to bear him across the 
ocean, as to trust that. 

The clock struck twelve. 

" 'T is midnight," said a female voice, "and he has not 
come. God send repentance to his heart ! Hope has almost 
failed me ; yet I will hope on." 

" Another glass of brandy for me,'' said a man, address- 
ing Mr. Dago Pump. 

" And rum for me," said another. 

"Gin with a hot poker in it for me," said the third ; and 
Mr. Pump poured out the poisons. 

Half a dozen men stood in front of some rough boards 
that served as a " bar." 

One of these — a tall, well-formed man — gazed fixedly 
upon the glasses, seemingly in deep thought. 

" Stop .' " he suddenly exclaimed. Mr. Pump nearly 
dropped the bottle. It was as an electric shock to him : 
an ashy paleness came over his face. " Stop ! " he again 
exclaimed. All eyes were fixed upon him. Some tried to 
laugh, but. could not. Dago set down the bottle, and the 
glasses, half filled, stood upon the bench before him. 

" I have been thinking," said he who had caused this strange 
effect, '* is it right for us to drink that? It does us no good ; 
it brings upon us much evil ; that 's what I 've been a- think- 
ing Avhile 'twas being poured out." 

'' So have I," exclaimed another. 

" And I," said a thkd. " I would have been worth fifty 



THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN. 73 

thousand dollars, this day, had I never touched stuff like that. 
I tell you what, coveys, let 's come oiitP 

" Hurra ! " shouted yet another ; " I 've spent a good for- 
tune in rum-shops. That 's what I say ; let 's come out." 

" Yes," said the first speaker, " let us come out. We have 
been in long enough ; — in the gutter, in the grog-shop, in mis- 
ery, in disgrace, in poverty, in jail, and in ruin. I say, let 
us come out. out of all these." 

" Amen ! " responded all. 

" Let us come out," he continued; " but what can tem- 
perance folks do ? I have signed the pledge, and signed, 
and signed, but I cannot keep it. I had no friends ; tem- 
perance folks never came to me. I have often thought that, 
if a friend would reach forth his hand, and help me from the 
gutter when I have lain there. I would do anything for such 
a friend. But when I am drunk they laugh at and jeer 
me. Boys stone and cuflF me, and men stand by and laugh 
at their hellish sport. Yes, those calling themselves ' friends 
of temperance ' would laugh at me, and say, ' Miserable fool, 
nothing can save him ! When such are dead, we can train up 
a generation of temperate people.' I am kicked and cuffed 
about like a dog, and not a hand is extended to relieve me. 
When I first tasted, I told him who gave it me the blame 
should rest on him if I fell. Where he is now, I know not ; 
bat, wherever he is, I know his is a miserable existence. 
Years have passed since then, and here I am, a miserable 
drunkard. My wife — where is she 7 and my good old aunt 
— where is she 7 At home in that comfortless room, weeping 
over my fall, and praying for rny reform. Brothers, let us 
arise ; let us determine to be men — free men ! " 

'.' It is done," said one and all ; and the keeper of the cel- 
lar dashed bottle after bottle against the wall. 

"Yes, let us renounce these habits.; they are bard to 
renounce ; temptation is hard to resist." 
7 



74 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

"The present pledge is not safe for us," said the keeper 
of the cellar, as he took a demijohn of liquor up tl e steps, 
and emptied it in the gutter. 

" Then let us have one of our own," said the first speaker. 
"Let it be called ' The Hope of the Fallen f for we are 
indeed fallen, and this, our last refuge from more fearful 
evils, is our onlj hope. May it not disappoint us ! May we 
cling to it as the drowning man grasps the rope thrown out 
for his rescue ! And not for us alone shall this hope exist. 
Let us go to every unfortunate in our land, and speak kindly 
to him. Ah, my friends, we know the value of a kind word. 
Let us lift him from the gutter, place him upon his feet, and 
say, ' Stand yp ! I myself also am a man.' " 

Having said this, he sent out for pen, ink and paper, 
and a pledge was carefully drawn up, of which the follow • 
ing is a, copy : 

" We, whose names are hereunto affixed, knowing by sad 
experience that the use of wine, beer, cider, rum, brandy, 
gin, and all kinds of intoxicating drinks, is hurtful to man, 
beast and reptile, do hereby pledge ourselves most solemnly 
to abstain now, henceforth, and forever, from the use of them 
in whatever shape they may be presented ; to neither eat, 
drink, touch, taste, nor handle them ; and in every place, 
and on every occasion, to use our influence in inducing oth- 
ers to do the same." 

The speaker was the first to place his name to this docu- 
ment ; and the keeper of the cellar started when he read the 
name of " Edward Dayton." 

" Is it possible ! " said he, and, grasping his hand, he shook 
it most heartily. 

Edward was as much astonished as he. Such a change 
had taken place that they could not at first recognize each 
other. 



THE HOPE OF THE lALLEN. 75 

"Yes," said Edward, "you tempted me to tlrink. I for- 
give. I now tempt you to sign this pledge." 

No words were requii'ed to induce all present to sign. 

They all spake of their past lives, related the sorrows they 
had felt, the misery they had endured ; and such was the 
interest manifested by each in listening to these plain, unvar- 
nished tales, that they resolved upon meeting in that same 
place the next night. 

The next day, the report spread like wild-fire about the 
city that drunkards themselves were reforming. Many 
doubted, and would not believe such to be the case. 

" They dixe past reforming," said public opinion ; "let 
them die; let us take care of the young." 

CHAPTER IX. 

They met in the same place the next night, but the next 
they did not. Their numbers had so increased that the cel- 
lar would not contain them ; and they engaged a large hall, 
and gave public notice that a meeting would be held at which 
reformed drunkards would speak. Those Avho before doubted 
did so no more ; yet from many the sneering, cold-hearted 
remark was heard, " They will not hold on." 

At the hour appointed, hundreds thronged to the place, 
and hundreds departed, being unable to gain admittance. 
That night, nearly Jive Jmndred signed the new pledge, 
and new additions were made daily. 

It had a power which no previous pledge had possessed ; 
a power, with God's aid, to bring man from the lowest 
depths of woe, place him on his feet, and tell him, " Sin 
no more." 

The new society increased in numbers. In other cities 
the same feeling arose, and societies of the same kind were 
formed. The papers were filled with accounts of their 



76 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

meetings, and the cause spread, to the astonishment and 
grateful admiration of all. 

Days of prosperity gladdened the heart of Edward. Joy 
took the place of sorrow in his family. He, like his thou- 
sands of brethren, had been snatched as a brand from the 
burning, and stood forth a living monument to the truth 
that there was a hope for the fillen. 

Twelve years have passed since that ever-memorable 
night, ^lillions have become better men, and yet the pledge 
remains to exert its influence, imd who can doubt that God 
directs its coui-se ? 

"T is sending joy to the mourning, and many a wounded 
heart it heals. Is there a power that can exceed this 7 
Is there another pledge that has eflfected as much good? 

Let us, then, push on the car. Let our influence be 
such as will advance, and not retard, its progress. Let us do 
this, and ere long we may rejoice together, and earth hold 
a grand jubilee, and all men shall testify that the Pledge 
is the '' hope of the fallen.'' 



THOUGHTS THAT COME PROM LONG AGO. 

There are moments in our life 
When are hushed its sounds of strife ; 
When, from busy toil set free, 
Mind goes back the past to see : 
Memory, with its mighty powers, 
Brings to view our childhood hours ; 
Once again we romp and play, 
As we did in youth's bright day ; 
And, with never-ceasing flow, 
Come the hours of Long Ago. 

Oft, when passions round us throng, 
And our steps incline to wrong, 
Memory brings a friend to view, 
In each line and feature true ; 
Though he long hath left us here, 
Then his presence seemeth near, 
And with sweet, persuasive voice, 
Leads us from an evil choice ; — 
Thus, when we astray would go. 
Come restraints from Long Ago. 

Oft, when troubled and perplexed, 
Worn in heart and sorely vexed. 
Almost sinking 'neath our load, 
Famishing on life's high road, — 
Darkness, doubt, and dark despair 
Leading us we know not where, — 
How hath sweet remembrance caught 
From the past some happy thought I 
And, refreshed, we on would go, 
Cheered with hopes from Long Ago. 
7* 



78 HALP HOUR STORIES. 

What a store-house, filled with gems 
Of more worth than diadems, 
Each hath 'neath his o\vn control, 
From which to refresh his soul ! 
Let us, then, each action weigh. 
Some good deed perform each jday. 
That in future we may find 
Happy thoughts to bring to mind ; 
For, with ever ceaseless flow. 
Thoughts will come from Long Ago. 



DETERMINED TO BE RICH, 

Rise up early, sit up late. 

Be thou unto Avarice sold ; 
Watch thou well at Mammon's gate, 

Just to gain a little gold. 

Crush thy brother neath thy feet, 
Till each manly thought is flown ; 

Hear not, though he loud entreat, 
Be thou deaf to every moan. 

Wield the lash, and hush the cry, 
Let thy conscience now be seared ; 

Pile thy glittering gems on high, 
Till thy golden god is reared. 

Then before its sparkling shrine 
Bend the neck and bow the knee ; 

Victor thou, all wealth is thine. 
Yet, what doth it profit thee » 



THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAVEN RETURNED, T9 



THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAVEN RETURNED. 

Pure as an infant's heart that sin ne'er touched, 

That guilt had ne'er polluted ; and she seemed 

Most like an angel that had missed its way 

On some kind mission Heaven had bade it go. 

Her eye beamed bright with beauty ; and innocence, 

Its dulcet notes breathed forth in every word, 

Was seen in every motion that she made. 

Her form was faultless, and her golden hair 

[n long luxuriant tresses floated o'er 

Her shoulders, that as alabaster shone. 

Her very look seemed to impart a sense 

Of matchless purity to all it met. 

I saw her in the crowd, yet none were there 

That seemed so pure as she ; and every eye 

That met her eye's mild glance shrank back abashed, 

It spake such innocence. 

One day she slept, — 
How calm and motionless ! I watched her sleep 
Till evening ; then, until the sun arose ; 
And then, would have awakened her, — but friends 
Whispered in my ear she would not wake 
Within that body more, for it was dead, 
And she, now clothed in immortality. 
Would know no more of change, nor know a car). 
And when I felt that truth, methought I saw 
A bright angelic throng, in robes of white, 
Bear forth her spirit to the throne of God ; 
And I heard music, such as comes to us 
Oft in our dreams, as from some unseen life, 
And holy voices chanting heavenly songs, 
And harps and voices blending in one hymn, 
Eternal hymn of highest praise to God 
For all the good the Heaven-sent one had done 
Smce first it left the heavenly fold of souls, 
To live on earth, and show to lower man 
How pure and holy, joyous and serene. 
They may and shall assuredly become 



80 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

When all the laws that God through Nature speaks 
Are kept unbroken ! # • # * 

• * * She had now returned, 

And heaven resounded with angelic songs. 
Before me lay the cold, unmoving form ; 
Above me lived the joyous, happy one ! 
And who should sorrow ? Sure, not I ; not she ; 
Not any one ! For death, — there was no death, — 
But that which men called death was life more real 
Thaa heart had e'er conceived or words expressed ! 



FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS! 

Flowers from the wild- wood, 

Flowers, bright flowers ! 
Springing in desert spot, 
Where man dwelleth not, — 

Flowers, bright flowers, 
Cheering the traveller's lot. 

Given to one and all, 

Flowers, bright flowers ! 
When man neglecteth thee. 
When he rejecteth thee. 

Flowers, bright flowers, 
God's hand protecteth thee ! 

Kemnants of paradise. 

Flowers, bright flowers ! 
Tinged with a heavenly hue. 
Reflecting its azure blue, 

Flowers, bright flowers. 
Brightest earth sver knew ! 



FORaET ME NOT. 81 

Cheering the desolate, 

Flowers, bright flo-wers ! 
Coming with fragrance fraught, 
From Heaven's own breezes caught, 

Flowers, bright flowers, 
Teachers of holy thought ! 

Borne to the curtained room, 

Flowers, bright flowers ! 
"Where the sick longs for light, 
Then, for the shades of night, 

Flowers, bright flowers. 
Gladdening the wearied sight ! 

High on the mountain- top, 

Flowers, bright flowers ! 
Low in sequestered vale, 
On clifi", mid rock, in dale, 

Flowers,-bright flowers, 
Ye do prevail ! 



FORGET ME NOT. 

Forget me not when other lips 

Shall whisper love to thee ; 
Forget me not when others twine 

Their chaplets for thy brow ; 
Forget me not, for I am thine. 

Forever onward true as now, 
Aa long as time shall be. 

There may be words thou mayest doubt, 

But when / tell thee " I am thine," 
Believe the heart's assurance true, 

In sorrow and in mirth 
Forever it doth turn to you, 

Confiding, trusting in thy -worth. 
Thou wilt, I know, be mine. 



WHAT IS TRUTH? 

Long, long ago, one whose life had been one of goodness 
' — whose every act had been that of charity and good will 
— was persecuted, hated and maligned ! He came with new 
hopes. He held up a light, whose rays penetrated far into 
the future, and disclosed a full and glorious immortality to 
the long doubting, troubled soul of man. 

He professed to commune with angels ! He had healed 
the sick ; he had given sight to the blind ; caused the lame to 
walk ; opened prison-doors, and had preached the Gospel to 
the poor. Those he chose for his companions were from 
humble rank. Their minds had not become enslaved to any 
creed ; not wedded to any of the fashionable and popular 
forms of the day, nor immovably fixed to any of the dogmas 
of the schools. He chose such because their minds were free 
and natural ; " and they forsook all and followed him." 

Among the rulers, the wealthy and the powerful, but few 
believed in him, or in the works he performed. To them he 
was an impostor. In speaking of his labors some cant 
phrase fell from their wise lips, synonymous with the " it is all 
a humbug " of our day. His healing of the sick was denied ; 
or, if admitted, was said to be some lucky circumstance of 
fate. His opening of the eyes of the blind was to them a 
mere illusion ; the supposed cure, only an operation of the 
imagination. 

All his good deeds were underrated ; and those who, 
having seen with their own eyes, and heard with' their own 
ears, were honest enough to believe and openly declare their 



WHAT IS TRUTH? 83 

belief, were looked upon by the influential and those in high 
places as most egregiouslj deceived and imposed upon. 

But, notwithstanding the opposition, men did believe ; and 
in one day three thousand acknowledged their belief in 
the sincerity of the teacher, and in the doctrines which he 
taught. 

Impressed deeply with the reality and divinity of his mis- 
sion, — looking to God as his father, and to all mankind as 
his brethren, — Jesus continued his way. To the scoffs and 
jeers o& the rabble, he replied in meekness and love ; and 
amid the proud and lofty he walked humbly, ever conscious 
of the presence of an angelic power, which would silence the 
loudest, and render powerless the might of human strength. 

He spoke as one having authority. He Condemned the 
formalism of their worship ; declared a faith that went 
deeper than exterior rites and ceremonies; and spoke with 
an independence and fearlessness such deep 'and soul- 
searching truths, that the people took up stones to stone him, 
and the priests and the rulers held council together against 
him. 

At length the excited populace, beholding their cherished 
faith undermined, and the new teacher day by day incul- 
cating doctrines opposed to those of Moses and the prophets, 
determined to take his life, and thus terminate his labors and 
put a stop to his heresies. 

They watched his every movement. They stood by and 
caught the words as they fell from his lips, hoping thus to 
get something by which to form an accusation against him. 
In this they failed. Though what he said was contrary to 
their time-worn dogmas, yet nothing came from his lips but 
sentiments of the purest love, the injunctions of reason and 
justice, and the language of humanity. Failing in this plan 
to ensnare him, justice was set aside, and force called in to 
their aid. 



84 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

See him now before a great tribunal, and Pilate, troubled 
in soul, compelled to say, " I find no fault in this man." 

Urged to action by the mad crowd around him, balancing 
his decision between justice, the prisoner's release, and in- 
justice, the call to crucify him, he knows not what to do. 
In an agony of thought, which pen cannot describe or human 
words portray, he delays his irrevocable doom. 

In the mean time, the persecutors grow impatient ; and 
louder than ever, from the chief priests and the supporters 
of royalty, goes up the infamous shout. " Crucify him, crucify 
him ! " At this moment, the undecided, 'fearful Pilate casts 
a searching glance about him. As he beholds the passionate 
people, eager for the blood of one man, and he innocent, and 
sees, standing' in their midst, the meek and lowly Jesus, 
calm as an evening zephyr over Judea's plains, from whose 
eye flows the gentle love of an infinite divinity, — his face 
beaming in sympathy with every attribute of goodness, faith 
and humanity, — all this, too, before his mad, unjust accusers, 
from whose eyes flash in mingled rays the venom of scorn 
and hate, — his mind grows strong with a sense of right. His 
feelings will not longer be restrained, and, unconscious of 
his position, forgetting for the moment the dignity of his 
office, he exclaims, with the most emphatic earnestness, 
" What is truth?" 

Eighteen hundred years have intervened between that day 
and this ; and now the same inquiry is heard, and often with 
the same earnestness as then. Men ask, and often ask in 
vain, " what is truth 7 " and yet the great problem to millions 
remains unsolved. 

Generations pass on, and leave to others the great ques- 
tion for them to ask , and they, in turn, to leave unanswered. 
The child, ere it can. speak in words, looks from its wistful 
eye, " What is truth 7 " Youth comes, and all the emotions 
of the soul are awakened. It arises from the playfulness of 



WHAT IS TRUTH •? 85 

childhood, forgets its little games, and, finding itself an actor 
in the drama of life, looks over the long programme of parts 
from which it is to choose its own, and anxiously inquires 
"What is truth?" Manhood feels the importance of the 
question ; and Age, though conscious of its near approach to 
the world of revealed truth, repeats it. 

The present is an era of thought. Men begin to assume 
a spirit of independence, and to look less upon human author- 
ity, and more upon that light which lighteth every man that 
cometh into the world. And it is well that it is so. It is 
well that we begin to look upon liberty in another light than 
a mere absence of iron bonds upon our hands and feet ; that 
we begin to discern that 

" He is a freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside." 

We are pressing on to know the Ifruth. We have grown 
weary of darkness, and are seeking the light. We should 
remember, in our researches, that, to find out truth, we must 
not be pledged to any form, any opinion, or any creed, how- 
ever old or dearly cherished such limitations may have been 
with ourselves or others. We must come to the task like 
Jittle children, ready to learn. We must leave our beliefs 
behind us. We must not bring them, and attempt to adapt 
our discoveries in the realms of eternal truth to them ; but 
we must build up the structure with the material we find in 
the universe of God ; and then, when reared, if we find that 
in doing so we have a stone from our old temple nicely ad- 
justed in the new, very well ; — let it remain, and thank God 
for it. 

Men have trusted too much in the views of past ages, and 
taken for truth many an error, because some one back in 
by-gone ages introduced it as such, and it has been believed 
in and held most sacred. 
8 



86 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Let our course be our own course, and not that of others. 
Let us seek for truth as truth. Let us be honest and press 
on, trusting in God the rewarder of all, who will bless all 
our efforts to ascertain his truths, and our duty to him, to 
our fellow-men, and to ourselves. 



THE HOMESTEAD VISIT. 

He had wandered far and long, and when, on his return to the scenes of 
his early life, he came in full view of the old house, in which and around 
which those scenes were clustered, he threw down his oaken staff, raised 
his hands, and clapped them like a child. Then a t?ar would roll down his 
face ; then a smile illumine it ; then he would dance with joy. As he ap- 
proached the building, he observed that the door was open ; and the large, 
hospitable-looking room was so inviting, and there being no one present, 
he entered, and indulged in thoughts like these : 

I STAND where I have stood before : 

The same roof is above me, 
But they who were are here no more, 

For me to love, or love me. 
I listen, and I seem to hear 

A favorite voice to greet me ; 
But yet I know that none are near, 

Save stranger forms, to meet me. 

I '11 sit me dovra , — for I have not 

Sat here since first I started 
To run life's race, — and on this spot 
, Will muse of the departed. 

Then I was young, and on my brow 

The rays of hope were shining ; 
But Time hath there his imprint now, 

That tells of life's declining. 

How great the change ! — though I can see 

Full many a thing I cherished — 
Yet, since beneath yon old oak tree 

I stood, how much hath perished. 
Here is the same old oaken floor. 

And there the same rough ceiling 
Each telling of the scenes of yore, 

Each former joys revealing. 



88 HALF HOUR STORIES, 

Bul^ friends of youth — they all have fl( 

Some yet on earth do love us ; 
While others, passed beyond the dead, 

Live guardian ones above us. 
Yet, o'er us all one powerful hand 

Is raised to guard forever, 
And all, ere long, one happy band 

Be joined, no more to sever. 

I 've trimmed my sail on every sea 

Where crested vraves are swelling ; 
Yet oft my heart turned back to thee, 

My childhood's humble dwelling. 
I 've not forgot my youthful days. 

The home that was my mother's, 
When listening to the words of praise 

That were bestowed on others. 

See, yonder, through the window-pane. 

The rock on which I rested ; 
And on that green how oft I 've lain — 

What memories there are vested ! 
The plaQp wliere once a sister's hand 

I held — none loved I fonder ; 
But she 's now with an angel band, 

Whilst I a pilgrim wander. 

There was a pretty, blue-eyed girl, 

A good old farmer's daughter ; 
We used the little stones to hurl. 

And watch them skip the water. 
We 'd range among the forest trees. 

To gather woodland flowers ; 
And then each other's fancy please 

In building floral bowers. 

Within this room, how many a tmie 
I 've listened to a story, 

And heard grandfather sing his rhyme 
'Bout Continental glory I 



THI mariner's song. 

And oft I 'd shoulder his old staff, 
And march as proud as any, 

Till the old gentleman -would laugh, 
And bless me with a penny. 

Hark ! 't is a footstep that I hear ; 

' A stranger is approaching ; 

I must away — were I found here 

I should be thought encroaching. 
******* 
One last, last look — my old, old home! 

One memory more of childhood ! 
I '11 not forget, where'er I roam, 

This homestead and the wild- wood. 



THE MARINER'S SOXG. 

THE sea, the sea ! I love the sea ! 
For nothing on earth seems half as free 
As its crested waves ; they mount on high, 
And seem to sport with the star-gemmed sky 
Talk as you vdll of the land and shore ; 
Give me the sea, and I ask no more. 

1 love to float on the ocean deep, 
To be by its motion rocked to sleep ; 

Or to sit for hours and watch the spray, 
Marking the course of our outward way, 
While upward far in a cloudless sky 
With a shriek the wild bird passeth by. 

And when above are the threatening clouds, 
And the wild wind whistles 'mid the shrouds. 
Our masts bend low till they kiss the wave, 
As beckoning one from its ocean cave, 

8* 



90 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Then hurra for the sea ! I love its foam, 
Aud over it like a bird would roam. 

There is that 's dear in a mountain home, 
With dog and gun 'mid the woods to roam • 
And city life hath a thousand joys, 
That quiver amid its ceaseless noise ; 
Yet nothing on land can give to me 
Such joy as that of the pathless sea. 

"When morning corae3, and the sun's first rays 
All around our gallant toj^mast plays, 
My heart bounds forth with rapturous glee, 
0, then, 't is then that I love the sea ! 
Talk as you will of the land and shore ; 
Give me the sea, and I ask no more! 



LOVE'S LAST ¥ORDS. 

They knew that she was going 

To holier, better spheres, 
Yet they could not stay the flowing 

Of their tears ; 
And they bent above in sorrow, 

Like moui'ners o'er a tomb. 
For they knew that on the morrow 

There 'd be gloom. 

There was one among the number 

"Who had watched the dying's breath, 
"With an eye that would not slumber 

Until death. 
, There, as he bent above her. 

He Avhispered in her ear 
How fondly he did love her, 

Her most dear. 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. ' 91 

" One word, 't will comfort send me, 

When early spring appears. 
And o'er thy grave I bend me 

In my tears. 
A single word now spoken 

Shall be kept in Memory's shrine, 
Where the dearest treasured token 

Shall be thine." 

She pressed his hand — she knew him — 

With the fervor of a child ; 
And, looking fondly to him. 

Sweetly smiled. 
And, smiling thus, she started 

For her glorious home above, 
And her last breath, as it parted, 

Whispered " Love.'^ 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS 

Sometimes my heart complaineth 
And moans in bitter sighs ; 
. And dreams no hope remaineth, 
No more its sun will rise. 

But yet I know God liveth. 
And will do all things well ; 

And that to me he giveth 

More good than tongue can tell. 

And though above me linger 
At times dark Sorrow's shroud, 

I see Faith's upraised finger 
Point far beyond the cloud. 



MT. YEMON, AND THE TOMB OE WASHINGTON. 

The heat of noon had passed, and the trees began to cast 
their evening shadows, when, in company with a friend, I 
seated myself in a carriage, and drove ofiF in the direction of 
Mount Vernon. We crossed the long bridge, and found our- 
selves in the old State of Virginia. 

It was a delightftil afternoon ; one just suited to the pur- 
pose to which we had devoted it. The trees were clad in 
fresh, green foliage, and the farms ai\d gardens were bloom- 
ing into early life. To myself, no season appears so beauti- 
ful as that of spring. All seasons to me are bright and glo- 
rious, but there is a charm about spring that captivates the 
soul. Then Nature weaves her drapery, and bends over the 
placid lake to jewel herself, as the maiden bends before her 
mirror to deck her pure white brow with diamonds and 
rubies. All is life, all animation, all clothed with hope ; all 
tending upward, onward to the bright future. 

" The trees are full of crimson buds, the woods are full of birds, 
. And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant words." 

In about one hour we reached the city of Alexandria 
Between this place and Washington a steamboat plies, going 
arid returning four times a day. The road from Washington 
to Alexandria is about decent ; but the road from thence to 
Mount Vernon is in the worst possible condition, — so bad, in 
fact, that we dismounted and walked a considerable distance, 
it being fai less tiresome to walk than to ride. The road 



MT, VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 93 

winds in a very circuitous route through a dense forest, the 
lofty trees of which, rising upon either hand, cast their deep 
shadows upon us. The place, that would otherwise have heen 
gloom}-, was enlivened by the variable songs of the mocking- 
birds, and the notes of their more beautiful-plumed though 
less melodious companions. 

Occasionally we passed the hut of a negro, and met a loaded 
team from some Virginian farm, drawn by three or four ill- 
looking, yet strong and serviceable horses. These teams 
were managed by negroes, — never less than two, and in some 
cases by three or four, or, as in one instance, by an entire 
family, man, wife and children, seated on their loads, whis- 
tling and singing, where also sat a large black-and-white 
mastiff Long after we passed and they had receded from 
our view, we could distinctly hear their melodious voices 
singing their simple yet expressive songs, occasionally inter- 
rupted by a " gee^ yawh, shcni" as they urged on their dil- 
atory steeds. 

The homes of the negroes were in some cases built of 
stone ; mostly, however, of boards, put loosely together, and 
in some instances of large logs, the crevices being filled with 
mud, which, the sun and wind having hardened, were white- 
washed, presenting a very strong though not very beautiful 
appearance, the architecture of which was neither Grecian 
nor Roman, but evidently from " original designs " by a not 
very fastidious or accomplished artist. 

Groups of women and children were about these houses ; 
some seated on the grass, in the shade of the tall trees; oth- 
ers standing in the doors, all unemployed and apparently 
having nothing to do but to talk, and this they appeared to 
engage in with a hearty good will. 

We continued our way over stones, up steep, deep-rutted 
hills, covered partly with branches and brambles, and down 
as steep declivities, through r)ond3 and brooks, now and then 



94 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

cheered by the pleasing prospect of a long road, evidently 
designed to illustrate the " ups and downs of life." 

After a tiresome journey, partly walked, partly ridden, 
which was somewhat relieved of its tediousness by the roman- 
tic and beautiful scenery through Avhich we passed, we came 
in view of Mount Vernon. 

An old, infirm, yet good, sociable negro met us at the 
gate, and told us that there was another road to the Mount, 
but that it was not as good as the one Ave came over, and 
also that there was a private road, which was not as good as 
either of the others ! We smiled, threw out a hint about 
aerial navigation. He smiled also, and, thinking we doubted 
his word, said,^ "Indeed, it is not as good; I wouldn't tell 
you a lie about it," Mercy on pilgrims to Mount Vernon ! 
If you ever go there, reader, do provide yourself with a con- 
science that can't be shaken out of you. 

Having been kindly furnished with a letter from Mr. Sea- 
ton, the editor of the Intelligencer^ and Mayor of Washing- 
ton city, to the proprietor of the estate, we inquired whether 
he was at home, and with pleasure learned that he was. 

We passed into Avhat we deemed an almost sacred enclos- 
ure, so linked is it with the history of our country, and the 
glorious days that gave birth to a nation's freedom. It 
seemed as though we had entered an aviary, so many and so 
various the birds that floated in the air around us, and filled 
it with the rich melody of their songs. 

At a short distance stood a beautiful deer, as if transfixed 
to the spot, his large, black, lustrous eyes turned towards us, 
liis ears erect, till, suddenly starting, he darted away, and 
leaped down the steep hill-side to the water's brink. 

The house I need not describe, as most persons are ac- 
quainted with its appearance, from seeing the numerous 
engraved representations of it. It shows many evidences of 
age and decay. Time is having his own way with it, as the 



MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 95 

hand that -would defend it from his ravages, and improve its 
looks, is kept back, that it may remain as nearly as possible 
in the same condition as when occupied by our first presi- 
dent. We entered and passed through several rooms, endeav- 
oring to allay our curiosity by asking more questions than 
our attendant could conveniently answer and retain his 
senses. 

We saw the massive key of that old French prison-house, 
the Bastile, presented to General Washington by that friend 
of freedom and humanity, General Lafayette, soon after the 
destruction of that monument of terror. We noticed that 
depredations had been committed by visitors upon the costly 
marble fire-frame, which was'a gift to Washington. 

Mr. Washington being called to the firm, we availed our- 
selves of the services of the old negro before mentioned, who 
led us around the estate. On our way .to the tomb, we 
passed through what. we judged to be a kitchen. The floor 
was brick, and a fireplace occupied nearly all of one side of 
the room ; one of those old-fashioned contrivances which were 
in vogue in those days when people went more for comfort 
than appearance. Half a score of negroes were in the room, 
who gazed at us as we entered, covered with dust and dirt, 
the real//'ee soiZ of Virginia. They seemed to think our 
intentions more of a warlike than a peaceable nature. We 
soon inclined them to the latter belief, however, by gently 
patting a curly-headed urchin upon the head, and distrib- 
uting a few pennies among the crowd. 

Five minutes' walk, and we were at the tomb. 

" There is the old General," said the aged negro, as' he 
touched lightly the sarcophagus with his cane ; " that, yon- 
der, is his wife," pointing to a similar one at the left. 

Silently I stood and gazed at the- marble coSn that held 
the mortal remains of him whom, when he lived, ail people 
loved, and the memory of whom, now that he has passed from 



96 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

our material vision, all people revere. A few branches of 
cypress lay upon it, and at its base a few withered flowers. 
The sarcophagus that holds the dust of Washington is 
placed upon a Ioav pedestal, formed of brick. A brick wall 
is at the sides, and an iron slat fence or gateway in front. 
Over this gateway a white stone is set in the brick-work, 
and bears this inscription : 

WITHIN THIS ENCLOSURE ARE 
THE REMAINS 
OF 
GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

Short, indeed, but how full of food for thought ! 

" General George Washington ! " He needs no long and 
fulsome epitaph carved in marble to tell his worth. Did his 
memory depend upon that alone, the marble would crumble 
into dust, mingle with his, and his name pass away with the 
stone that man vainly thought would preserve it. No ; his 
monument is a world made free, and his memory as lasting 
as immortal mind. Wherever the light of freedom shall pen- 
etrate, it will bear on its every glistening ray his cherished 
name ; and whenever and wherever men shall struggle with 
oppression, it shall inspire them with vigor, and cheer them 
on to victory. . •* 

Marble will perish, and monuments of adamant will crum- 
ble to dust ; but the memory of Washington will live as long 
as there is a heart to love, or a mind to cherish a recollec- 
tion of goodness. 

'' He was a good old man," said the negro, " and he has 
gone to his rest." 

"We are all' going," he continued, after a pause. I 
thought a tear stole down his wrinkled face ; but he turned 
his back to me, and left me to my own reflections. 

Deep silence was about us. We heard not even the notes 



MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON. 97 

of a bird. Not a zephyr moved the air, not a rustling leaf 
was there. In front, far -below, lay the Potomac. Not a 
breath of wind moved the surface of its waters, but calmly, 
peacefully, undisturbed, the river moved on, as though con- 
scious of the spot it was passing. On its glassy surface were 
reflected the branches that bent over and kissed it as it 
flowed, and the last rays pf a declining sun tinted with their 
golden light the hills on the opposite shore. 

I stood at the tomb of Washington : on my right stood a 
distinguished Indian chief ; on my left, " Uncle Josh," the 
old African, of three-score years and ten. We represented 
three races of the human family, and we each were there 
with the same feelings of love, honor, and respect to departed 
worth. 

Night was hastening on. I clambered up the embank- 
ment, and plucked a few green leaves from a branch that 
hung over the tomb ; gazed once more, and yet again, within 
the enclosure ; then turned away, and hastened to overtake 
my companions, who were far in advance. 

If our country is ever called to pass through another strug- 
gle, may God, in his wisdom, raise up for it another Washing- 
ton ! 

The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, 
laden with the fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered 
about us. A lively squirrel sprang across our path ; a 
belated bird flew by ; and, amid the pleasant, quiet scenes c^ 
rural life, we wended our way homeward. 
9 



FREEDOM'S GATHERING 

I SEEMED to live beyond the present time ; 

Methought it was when all the world was free; 
And myriad numbers, from each distant clin *, 

Came up to hold their annual jubilee. 
From distant China, Afric's sunburnt shore, 

From Greenhmd's icebergs, Russia's broad domain, 
They came as men whom fetters bound no more, 

And trod- New England's valley, hill, and plain. 
They met to hold a jubilee, for all 
Were free from error's chain, and from the oppressor's thra H. 

Word had gone forth that slavery's power was done ; 

The cry like wild-lire through the nations ran ; 
Russia's tame serf, and Afric's sable son. 

Threw off their chains — each felt himself a man. 
Thrones that had stood for ages were no more ; 

Man ceased to suffer ; tyrants ceased to reign ; 
And all throughout the world, from shore to shore, 

Were loosed from slavery's fetter and its chain ; 
And those who once Avere slaves came up as free, 
Unto New England's soil, to keep their jubilee. 

New England ! 'twas a fitting place, for it 

Had sent its rays upon them, as a star 
Beams from the glorious heaven on slaves who sit 

In chains, to lure them where free seraphs are ; 
The light it had shed on them made them start 

From their deep lethargy, then look and see 
That they of Freedom's boon might have a part 

Tlieir nation glorious as New England be. 
And tlien like men they struggled till they won, 
And Freedom's high-born light shone as a noonday son. 

Men gathered there who -vere men ; nobly they 

- Had long and faithful ought 'jjainst error's night, 



freedom's GATHERINa. 99 

And now they saw the sunliglit of that day 

They long had hoped to see, when truth and right 
Should triumph o'er the world, and all should hold 

This truth self-evident, that fellow-men, 
In God's own image made, should not be sold 
Nor stalled as cattle in a market-pen. 
Praises they sang, and thanks they gave to God, 
That he had loosed the chain, and broke the oppressor's rod. 

They gazed o'er all the past ; their vision's eye 

Beheld how men in former years had groaned. 
When Hope's own flame burned dim, and no light nigh 

Shone to disperse the darkness ; when enthroned 
Sat boasting Ignorance, and 'n«ath its sway 

Grim Superstition held its lurid lamp. 
That only darkened the obstructed way 

In which man groped and wandered, till the damp, 
Cold, cheerless gateway of an opening tomb 
Met his extended hand, and sealed his final doom. 

Perchance one mind, illumined from above, 

Did strive to burst the heavy bonds it wore. 
Pierce through the clouds of error, and, in love 

With its new mission, upward seek to soar. 
Upon it shone truth's faintest, feeljlest ray ; 

It would b(^ free ; but tyrants saw and crushed 
Man's first attempt to cast his chains away, 

The first aspu'iugs of his nature hushed. 
Thus back from men was Freedom's genius driven. 
And Slavery's chains in ten-fold strength were riven. 

In gazing o'er the past, 't was this they saw — 

How EvU long had triumphed ; but to-day 
Man bowed to nothing but God's righteous law, 

And Truth maintained its undisputed sway. 
Right conquered might ; and of this they were proud, 

As they beheld all nations drawing near, — 
Men from all lands, a vast, unnumbered crowd. 

While in their eyes full many a sparkling tear 
Trembled a while, then from its cell did start. 
Witness to the deep joys of an o'erflovs-ing heart. 



100 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

There came ip those who 'd crouched beneath tue lash, 

Had bowed beneath the chains they scarce could bear. 
Till Freedom's lightning on their minds did flash, 

And roused them as a lion in his lair 
Is roused when foes invade it, then, with strength 

Near superhuman, one bold effort made 
To break their cruel bondage, till at length 

Beneatli their feet they saw their fetters laid. 
'T was then they lifted their freed hands on high, 
And peans loud and long resounded thi-ough the sky. 

Up, up they came, and still the bannered host 

Far in the distance met my wondering eye ; 
On hill and dale, on all New England's coast, 

White banners waved beneath a cloudless sky. 
The aged sire leaned on his oaken staff, 

INIanhood stood up in all its strength and pride. 
And youth came dancing with a joyous laugh. 

With woman, lovely woman, at their side ; 
Bright eyes, glad hearts, and joyous souls, were there. 
Free as the light that shone, unfettered as the air. 

The mind, that spark of Deity within 

That hath its nurture from a higher world. 
No longer bound by tyranny and sin. 

Beheld its highest, noblest powers unfurled. 
No more did Error bind it to its creed. 

Or Superstition strive to blind its sight ; 
It followed only whore God's truth did lead, 
And trusted him to guide its course aright. 
The inner as the outer man was free. 
And both united held this glorious jubilee. 



'T was all a vision, and it passed away. 

As dreams depart ; yet it did leave behind 

Its deep impressions, thoughts that fain would stay 
And hold comuuinion with the tireless mind. 

I wished that it were real ; alas ! I heard 
The clank of Slavery's fetters rend the air ; 



freedom's gathering. 101 

And feelings of my heart were deeply stirred, 
When I beheld my brethren, who dare 
Proclaim all " equal," yet in chains of steel 
Bind men, who, like themselves, can pain and piw^i 16 leel. 

God in his wisdom meant all should be free. 

All equal : each a brother unto man. 
Presumptuous mortal ! wiio Ills great decree 

Durst strive to change to suit thy selfish plan ! 
Know thou that his fixed purpose will be done, 

Though thou arrayest all thy puny strength 
In war against it ! All who feel the sun 

Shall own his goodneas, and be/ree at length 
God cares for mortals, though he reigns on high ; 
Freedom is His own cause, and it shall never die ! 

My country ! if my heart one wish doth hold, 

For thee and for thy good, it is that thou 
No more permit thy children to be sold ! 

Forbid that they as slaves to man shall bow ! 
For them our fathers nobly fought and bled ; 

For them they poured their life-blood forth aa ram ; 
Shall it in foreign lands of us be said. 

We bind our brothers with a galling chain? 
While the Old World is struggling to be free, 
America ! shall this foul charge be laid to thee ? 

We all may err ; may oft be led astray ; 

Let him who 'd free the slave be careful he 
le not a slave himself to some fond way 

He would adopt to set his brother free ! 
All seek one end ; for all one good would gain ; 

Then, on aa brothers, hand in hand proceed ! 
Paths that seem intricate will all be plain. 

If we but follow where God's truth would lead. 
Trust Him for strength in darkness and in light ; 
His word will cheer us on, — His presence give us might. 

9* 



102 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



SONG OF THE BIRD. 

On the topmost branch of the highest tree 

I sit and sing, I am free ! I am free ! 

When the lightnings flash, when the thunders roar, 

I plume my wings and away I soar ! 

But soon on the branch of a lofty tree 

Gayly I sing, I am free ! I am free ! 

A huntsman he came by my nest one day, 

And thought that with gun my song lie would stay ; 

But I left my nest when he thought me there, 

And I roamed about in my native air. 

Then, when he was gone, on the highest tree 

Gayly I sung, I am free ! I am free ! 

It is I, 't is I, that at dawn of day 
Go to meet the sun at its earliest ray. 
I love its heat ; so I cheer it along 
With chirping notes and melodious song ; 
And all the day on the highest tree 
Gayly I sing, I am free ! I am free ! 

When the dusky shades of the night appear, 
In my nest on high I have naught to fear ; 
Sweetly I slumber till dawning of day, 
Then to the East, for the sun, I 'm away, 
Till, borne on its i-ays to the highest tree, 
Gayly I sing, I am free ! I am free ! 

O, I love my nest, and my nest loves me ! 
It rocks like a bark on the dancing sea ; 
Gently it bows when I wish to retire ; 
When in, it rises higher and higher. 
0, 1 love my nest, and I love the tree, 
Home and the haunt of the bird that is free ! 



HE IS THY BROTHER. 103 



I CHANGE BUT IN DYING. 

I CHANGE but in dying, — I am faithful till death ! 
I will guard thee with care from pollution's foul breath ; 
I promise that ne'er in neglect thou shalt pine ; 
I change but in dying, — say, wilt thou be mine ? 

I come not with riches ; good fortune ne'er blest me ; 
Yet one of less worth hath often carest me ; 
The light of true love o'er thy pathway shall shine ; 
I change but in dying, — say, wilt thou be mine ? 

I change but in dying, — no holier vow 
From lips mortal e'er came than I breathe to thee now ; 
It comes from a heart with love for thee sighing ; 
Believe me, 'tis true, — I change but in dying ! 



HE IS THY BROTHER. 

Go, break the chains that bind the slave ; 

Go, set the captive free ; 
For Slavery's banners ne'er should wave, 

And slaves should never be. 

Yet not in anger. Hasty words 

Should not to thee belong. 
They will not loose a single link, 

But bind them yet more strong. 

O, while ye think to him in chains 

A brother's rights are due, 
Remember him who binds those chaios ! 

He is thy brother, too ! 



THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK. 

CHAPTEK I. 

." Will you sign the pledge 1 " asked one young man af 
another. 

"No!" was the ready response; and, after a moment's 
pause, "You are -wrong, and I am right. You wish to 
deprive me of a social glass, free companionship Avith those 
I love, life's best enjoyments, and to live bound down to the 
contracted limits of a temperance-pledge. — Me sign ! No ! 
Go ask leave of the soaring eagle to clip his wings ; of the 
oriole to tarnish his bright plumage ; of the bounding deer 
to fetter his free limbs, — but do not ask me to sign a 



se 



I " 



pled, 

The young men parted. Each went his way ; one to his 
counting-room, the other to his home. 

The proprietors of the store with which the former was 
connected had been for a number of years busily engaged in 
the importation, adulteration and sale of wines and brandies. 
From the cellar to the attic of their large warehouse, pipes, 
puncheons, and barrels of the slow poison were deposited, 
with innumerable bottles of wine, reputed to be old as a cen- 
tury, if not older. A box or two of Flemish pipes re- 
lieved the sameness of the scene, — barrels on barrels. 

From the counting-room of the establishment a large 
number of young men had gone forth to become either whole- 
sale or retail dealers in the death-drugged merchandise. The 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. 105 

ill-success which attended these, and the lamentable end to 
which they arrived, Avould have been singular and mysterious, 
had it followed in the wake of any other business. But, as 
it was, eflfect followed cause, and such is the law of nature. 

One, a young man of promise in days gone-by, recently 
became the inmate of an alms-house in a distant city ; 
another, urged to madness by frequent potations, died as the 
fool dieth ; and a third, who had been the centre light of a 
social circle, as he felt the chill of death come upon him, 
called all his friends near,. and said to them, " Deal not, deal 
not in the arrows of death, lest those arrows pierce thine own 
heart at last ! " 

All these facts were knoAvn to the public ; yet they coun- 
tenanced the traffic in which Messrs. Laneville & Co. were 
engaged. They were merchants, they were wealthy ; for 
these reasons, it would seem, the many-headed public looked 
up to them with a feeling bordering on reverence, somewhat 
awed by their presence, as though wealth had made them 
worthy, while many a less rich but ten-fold more honest man 
walked in the shadow of the mighty Magog, unseen, — uncared 
for, if seen. Messrs. Laneville &, Co. knew that the law was 
against their business ; they knew, also, that public opinion, 
if not actually in favor of it, willingly countenanced it. 

Perchance the cry of some unfortunate widow might at 
times reach their ears ; but it was speedily hushed by the 
charmed music of the falling dollar, as it was exchanged for 
their foul poison. Forgetting they were men, they acted as 
demons, and continued to deal forth their liquid death, and 
to supply the thousand streams of the city with the causb 
of the crime it was obliged to punish, and the pauperism it 
was obliged to support. 

The " Vincennes " had just arrived at the wharf as James 
entered the store. It had been the custom of the owners, 
on the annual arrival of this vessel, to have a party on board. 



106 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

On this occasion, they ma^e the usual arrangements for the 
festivity. Cards of invitation were speedily written, and dis- 
tributed among members of the city government, editors, 
clergymen, and other influential persons. James was free to 
invite such of his friends as he chose, and in doing so the 
question arose whether he should ask George Alverton to be 
present. It was known to him that George was a teetotaller, 
and had that morning invited him to sign the pledge. He 
knew that at the entertainment wine would circulate. He 
knew that some would indulge rather freely, and that the 
maintenance of a perfect equilibrium by such would be very 
diflicult. Suppose he, himself, — that is, James, — should be 
among these last mentioned, and that, too, before his friend 
George ; would it not demolish his favorite argument, which 
he had a thousand times advanced, that he knew 7-igJU from 
wrongs — when to drink and when to stop drinking? yet, 
thought he, I may not indulge too freely, Yes ; I will 
maintain my position, and show by practice what I teach by 
preaching. Besides, it would be v6i-y impolite, as well as un- 
courtcous, in me, not to invite one whose character I value so 
highly as his, — one whose friendship I so much esteem. I 
will invite him. He shall be present, and shall see that I 
can keep sober without being pledged to do so. 

CHAPTER II. 

George Alverton was the son of a nobleman. Start not, 
republican reader, for we mean not a stiff-starched branch of 
English nobility, but one of America's noblemen, — and 
hers are nature's ! He was a hard-working mechanic ; one 
of God's noblest works, — an honest man ! Americans know 
not, as yet, the titled honors of the Old World ; and none, 
save a few, whose birth-place nature must have mistook, would 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. 107 

introduce into a republican country the passwords of a mo- 
narchical one. 

"An invite for you," said the laughing Josephine, as 
George entered at dusk. "And ten to one it's from that 
black-eyed Kate, who is bewitching all the young men with- 
in a twenty-mile circuit with her loving glances — eh ? A 
match, ten to one ! " 

"Always gay," said George, as he turned half aside to 
avoid the mischievous look of his sister; " but, by the way, 
Jos, to be serious, an invite did you say 7 How do you 
know that?" 

"0, by the way 't is folded ; we girls have a way of 
knowing a love-letter from bills of exchange, and an invita- 
tion from bills of lading. Just look at it ; see how pretty 
tis enveloped, how handsomely directed, — George Alvcr 
ton^ JSsq., Present. It 's no use, George ; you need n't 
look so serious. You are a captured one, and. when a bird s 
in a net he may as well lie still as flutter ! " 

Josephine handed the note to her brother, slyly winking as 
*he did so, as much as to say, 

" The marriage-bells are ringing, love." 

George, observing the superscription, was convinced that it 
was from James Clifton, and remarked, 

" Don't be too hasty ; it is from James ; the direction must 
be wrong ; it was doubtless intended for you. Look out, Jos ; 
you may be the captured one, after all ! " 

Josephine was not to be thus thrown from her ground ; so, 
turning to her brother with a laugh, she said, *" 

" For me ! Well, if so 't is so ; but I judge from what I; 
see. Notwithstanding your insinuation that James writes to 
no one but myself, I '11 venture a bright gold dollar that 
this is for yourself, even though it be from James. Open 
the budget, and prove the truth of what I say." 






108 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

George untied the white ribbon that bound it, and, open- 
ing the envelope, found an invitation to a gentleman's party 
to be held that evening on board the "Vincennes." Jose- 
phine laughed merrilj over what she deemed her brother's 
defeat, and George as heartily over what he deemed his vic- 
tory. He was advised to go ; not, however, without an 
accompanying hint of its being a dry affair, as ladies were 
to be' excluded. Josephine was puzzled to know the reason 
of their exclusiveness, and what festivity was to be engaged 
in of which they could not partake. 

"I scarcely know what to do," said George, "as wines 
will be circulated, and I shall be asked, a dozen times or 
more, to drink of them." 

"Go, by all means," said his sister; "stand your own 
ground, be firm, be resolute, refuse if asked to partake ; but 
do so in a manner that, while it shows a determination to 
resist temptation, will not offend, but rather induce him you 
respect to think whether it will not be best for him also to 
refuse." 

' ' I will. I am aware of the situation in which James is 
placed. He has a generous, a noble heart, that needs but 
to know the right to do it. I will go ; and if by example, 
persuasion or otherwise, I can prevail upon him to sign the 
pledge, I will do so, and thank God for it. I will speak to 
him kindly, and in reason. Others will drink, if he does 
not ; others will fall, if he escapes ; and such examples are 
the most convincing arguments that can be used to prove 
that an unpledged man, in these days of temptation, is unsafe, 
and unmindful of his best and dearest interests." 

CHAPTER III. 

Notwithstand'ng the short interval between the reception 
of the cards aiiJ ie hour -^f festivity, the time appointed saw 



, THE WINE-DLALEr's CLERK. 109 

a goodly number assembled iii the •\vell-furnished, richly-dec- 
orated cabins of the ship. 

It -was evident that some individuals had been busy as 
bees, for all was clean and in the best of order. Wreaths 
of evergreen and national flags decorated the vessel, and 
bouquets of bright and fragrant flowers, conspicuously ar- 
ranged, loaded the air with their sweet perfumes. There 
were card-tables and cards, scores of well-filled decanters, 
and glasses almost without number. At one end of the 
cabin stood a table filled with fruits of the most costly kind. 
There were oranges fresh from the land that gave them 
growth, and other products of sunny Italy and the islands 
beyond the seas. The captain was as lively as a lark, and 
as talkative as wit and wine could make him. He spoke of 
his quick voyage, praised his ship till praise seemed too poor 
to do its duty, boasted of its good qualities, said there was 
not a better craft afloat, and finished his eulogy by wishing 
success to all on board, and washing it down with a glass of 
Madeira, which, he said, was the stuff, for he made it him- 
self from giapes on the island. 

Messrs. Laneville & Co. were in high glee. They drank 
and played cards with men worth millions ; spoke of the 
inclemency of the season, and expressed great surprise that 
so much poverty and wretchedness existed, with one breath, 
and with the next extolled the wines and administered jus- 
tice to the eatables. Editors were there who had that morn- 
ing written long " leaders " about the oppression of the poor 
by the rich, and longer ones about the inconsistencies of iheir 
contemporaries, who ate and drank, and dreamt not of incon- 
sistency in themselves, though they guided the press with 
temperance reins, and harnessed themselves with those -vMio 
tarried long at the wine. 

James di'ank quite often, and George as often admonished 
him of his danger. But the admonitions of a young man 
10 



110 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

had but little if any influence, counteracted as they were by 
the example of the rich and the great about him. There was 
Alderman Zemp, Avho was a temperance man in the world, 
but a wine-drinker in a ship's cabin. He had voted for 
stringeiit laws against the sale of liquors, and had had his 
name emblazoned on the pages of every professedly temi)er- 
ance paper as a philanthropist and a righteous man ; and on 
the pages of every anti-temperance publication, as a foe to 
freedom, and an enemy to the rights of humanity. But he 
drank ; yes, he had asked James to take a glass of the water 
of Italy, as he called it. Clergymen, so called, disgraced 
themselves, and gave the scoffers food for merriment. Judges 
who that day might have sentenced some unfortunate to im- 
prisonment for drinking, drank with a gusto equalled only 
by lawyers who would talk an hour in court to prove a man 
discreditable evidence because he was known to visit bar- 
rooms ! It was the influence of these, and such like, that 
made James drink, and caused the labor of George to prove 
all unavailing. It is the example of the rich that impedes 
the progress of temperance, — they who loll on damask so ■ 
fas, sip their iced champagnes and brandies, and never ge 
"drunk,'' though they are sometimes "indisposed." 

The'clock struck twelve, then one, and the morning hours 
advanced, light-foot messengers of the coming day. The 
gay and the jocund laugh was hushed, and the notes that 
told of festive mirth were silenced. Nature, either fatigued 
by exertion or stupefied by wine, had sank to repose ; and 
those who had lingered too long and indulged too freely 
were lying on the cabin-floor helpless. George retired at a 
seasonable hour. James remained, and fell, as others, before 
the enchanting wine-cup's power ! 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. Ill 

CHAPTER IV. 

The next morning George called at the store of Laneville 
& Co. Na one was in save a small lad, who, to his inquiry, 
replied that all were sick. The youth was a short, porpoise- 
shaped lad, who appeared quite independent for his age and 
sUition, and told George that he had better call the next day, 
as the folks would n't be down. In an instant George sus- 
pected the cause of their absence. Though he knew James 
Avould be mortified to be seen, yet he determined upon visit- 
ing him, thinking it a favorable opportunity to submit to 
him the expediency of taking that step which he had urged 
upon him on the morning previous. 

Conscious of being engaged in an act of duty, he ascended 
;he steps that led to the door of the house. lie rang ; a 
servant-girl answered his call. 

"Holloa!" shouted a voice at the head of the stairs. 
"Who's there 1 — what cow "s got into my pasture now? 
Another glass, friends, — once more ! Now drink, ' Deat ' 
to the temperance cause, and ill-luck to fanatics ! ' Holloa ! 
down below, — come aloft ! " 

"Hush! be quiet," said a female voice, in a whisper. 
"James, do respect yourself" 

" Hush ! who says hush ? My soul 's in arms ; come on, 
John Duff ! bring liquor here, and cursed be he who says, 
I 've had enough ! " 

The closing of a door put an end to this extemporaneous 
address. George stood like a statue ; he knew not which 
course to take, — whether to go up to his friend's room, or go 
down to the street. He soon determined, and sent word that 
he wished to speak to James. In a moment the latter was 
again to be heard declaiming disconnected sentences on all 
manner of subjects, until, learning the wish of George, he 
shouted, 



112 iiAU HOUR SToraES. 

• • Yes, tell him to come up and revel in the groves of 
Madeira, or dance with pea*iint-girls at the grape-gatherings 
in Sicily ! Yes. George, up here, and see how a man can 
live a tempenmce life without signing the pledge, and be as 
independent as he pleases ! "' 

As George entered, James grasped his hand. — swung 
him round rather familiarly, and pushed him towards a 
chair. 

The furniture and all that was in the room was in the 
greatest confusion, not excepting James Clifton himself 
Theiv was a boot-jack and a vase of llowei-s side by side on 
the mantel : a p;ur of Iwots on the centre-table, with two or 
three annuals on them, as though to keep them fi-om being 
blown away ; a nice hat stoo^i on tlie hearth filleil with co;\l- 
ashes, while an inkstand upside down on a pile of linen 
bosoms had left an impression not easily efiaeeil ; the paint- 
ings that were in the ro^m weiv turneil face towtuxls the 
wall, — some freak of James', as though ashamed to have 
them see the performances. 

'•Novr, George," s:ud Mr. Clifton, -you can be convinced 
of the truth of my doctrine. I did n't sign the pleilge. and 
I'm as sober, sober as a brandy-smasher ! You recollect 
what a gx-eat poet s;iys. — 

* Drink till the tnoon gxx^s down.' 

I can improve that ; I say, — 

' Driuk till ji>Hri:t7rrs go down.' 

Vhat an age this is. when temperance flinatics dance 
Ju-ough the world to smash decanters, and make one pledge 
himself to be a fool .' Indejxnidence is my motto I I sro for 
independence now. independence forever, and as much louijer 

i* possible. "N^Tio 3i\ys I am not right J Deludeil mortals, 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK, 113 



who wink at sin, and kick at brandies ! Magnificent mon- 
strosities, making manliness moonshine; metaphysical Moora 
murdering Munchausen — " 

"But hold, James," said George, interrupting him in his 
remarks; "keep within bounds, — let us reason." It was 
not with much hope of success that George asked his friend 
to " reason," for his condition was one not in the least degree 
favorable to such a performance. 

" Reason 7 " exclaimed James. " I 'm not a reasonable, — 
reasoning, I mean, — I 'm not a reasorjng being ! Go ask 
the pigs to reason !" 

Notwithstanding all this, George seemed inclined to argu- 
ment, for he immediately said, 

"Don't you see the ill effects of last night's indulgence 
in the confusion around you, and feel them iir your own 
mind and body ? " 

" Now you talk like a man. Let us send the 'James- 
town' to Ireland with bread and butter. 'Tis a vote! passed 
unanimously by both houses of Congress. We '11 fire a full 
broadside of gingerbread at the old Green Isle, and teach the 
people to eat for a living." 

This rambling from the inquiry George had made induced 
him to relinquish all hope of influencing him at that time. 
He saw how he had fallen ; and he needed no prophet's ken 
to behold his future course, unless he turned from the path 
he was now so enthusiastically following. 

Seeing that no good could be effected by his remaining, 
George arose to depart, when James caught his arm, and told 
him not to be in such haste. 

" I want you to take a glass of wine ; " and, ringing the 
bell, a servant was at the door before Mr. Alverton had an 
opportunity to say or do anything. 

"You know I don't drink wines," said George; "why d^ 
you ask me ?- " 

10* 



114 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" Don't drkk 7 " 

"You look surprised, but you know I do not." 

" Everybody drinks." 

" Not all, if I am one of that extensive number." 

"Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his 
Avine, and my friends all drink, .except you ; and you are a 
sort of nondescript, a sort of back-action member of human 
society, a perfect ginger-cake without any ginger in it. 
Say, got a pledge in your pocket? / have; here it is :" 
and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he had written 
some half-legible lines. 

"See how you like it; — it is what is called the Inde- 
pendent Pledge. I '11 read it. 

" ' We the undersigned, believing the use of wines and other 
liquors beneficial to ourselves in general, and the dealers in 
particular, pledge ourselves to act as we please in all matters 
of politics and phrenology.' " 

The servant, who yet stood at the door waiting orders, 
burst forth into a loud laugh, as the reading of this was fin- 
ished, while George, though inwardly sorrowing over the 
situation of his friend, could not refrain from smiling at his 
ridiculous appearance and doings. There was a good humor 
running through the method of his madness, that made him 
fiir from being disagreeable. 

Mr. Alverton passed to the door, and, motioning the ser- 
vant aside, entreated her not to bring him wine. 

" Well, sir, that be 's just as he says," said she, in a loud 
voice, and in a manner that convinced Mr. Alverton that she 
cared not as to what might follow. 

"Good ! " shouted James. "Why, she 's my confidential ; 
she 's as true to me as a book. Sal, bring np two decanters 
of that best." 

The girl laughed, and bounded out of the room to do as he 
requested. 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. 115 

The Avine came ; a long talk ensued, as unmeaning and use- 
less as that we have above related, and George left with a 
heavy heart, promising to call on the morrow. 

As he entered the street, and the cool, fresh air of ao 
^ autumn morning greeted him, he felt somewhat revived, and 
quickening his step, he soon reached his home. He dare not 
mention his adventure to Josephine, though he Avanted to. 
She was the betrothed of James. In one month thej were 
to be married ! Dark and frowning were the clouds that 
gathered in their blackness over the mind of George, as he 
mused on what had been and what was to be. Should he 
tell her all 7 It was his duty. Should he shrink from the 
performance of his duty 1 No. 

CHAPTER V. 

"Never!" exclaimed the young lady, as she wiped her 
eyes, and a smile of joy and hope burst through her teai-s. 
" George, I know he will not go too far, — 0, no ! As an 
eagle may touch the earth, yet, soaring again, float in its 
own element in the light of the sun, so may he, though he 
has this once fallen, soar upward, and higher than ever, plan- 
ning not another descent so low." 

"I hope it may be so," said George. 

" Aiid why not hope? You know each has an opinion of 
his OAvn, but that opinion may be changed. Though he now 
opposes the pledge, and the cause of which it is the represent- 
ative, yet he ma}'^ think differently, and may, through your 
influence, become one of its most zealous advocates. Don't 
mention to him that I know of his act," exclaimed Josephine, 
springing to catch the arm of her brother, as he opened the 
door to leave. 

She was answered in the negative, and in the examination 
of a few articles that were being prepared for her bridal-day 



116 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

she gradually forgot all unpleasant misgivings, and nothing 
but happiness could she see before her. 

It was not until the next day that George had an opportu- 
nity of seeing his friend. He then met him at the store, and 
James laughed over the doings of the day previous as a 
"good joke," as he called them. On that occasion, as on 
several subsequent ones, he urged him to sign and become a 
total-abstinent; but, with such influences as those which 
surrounded him, it was not strange that these efforts proved 
ineffectual. 

AYeeks passed, and the hour of marriage drew nigh. The 
festivity was to be one of unusual splendor and gayety. For 
a long time had preparations been in progress. 

It was painful for George to refer to a matter which he 
would not have spoken of had it not so much concerned the 
welfare of a sister whom he loved as his own self When he 
mentioned the circumstances attending the party on board the 
"Vincennes," she, in the fulness of her love, excused 
James, and brought up a host of arguments to prove the 
impossibility of a reoccurrence of any similar event. 

Love is stronger than death ; and, mastering all things, 
overlooks or decreases the evil and enlarges the goodness of 
its object. It was so in this case. Josephine's attachment 
to James led her to sacrifice all other feelings and opinions to 
her deep affection for him, and made her willing to stand by 
him or fall" with him, as the vine to the tree, bright and 
fresh, though the once sturdy oak lies fallen and blighted. 

The evening came, and with it many a bright and joyous 
heart to the home of George Alverton. A more beautiful 
bride never pronounced the bridal- vow than she who there, 
encircled with bright eyes and smiling faces, gave all to 
James Clifton. And when it was over, when they joined the 
bright galaxy that were about them and mingled Avith others 
in the festive mirth of the hour, a life of joy and social com- 



THE WINE-JEALER'S CLERK. 117 

fort was predicted fol- the hearts which that night were made 
oiv^ ! Music was there with its charms, Terpsichore with 
her graceful motions, and everything from commencement to 
close was conducted in so happy and agreeable a manner, 
that not a few young folks, as they rode home, agreed to go 
tnrough the same performance at their earliest convenience. 

After the usual "calls" had been attended and a few 
weeks had elapsed. James and his young wife located them- 
selves in a dwelling-house, which was furnished in an elegant 
though net in an extravagant manner. He was to continue 
with Messrs. Laneville & Co. They reposed the utmost confi- 
dence in him, and considered him the best judge of liquors in 
the city. On the day of his marriage they increased his sal- 
ary one third, so that his income was by no means to be 
complained of. It was such as to enable him to live well, 
and to lay aside quite a large amount quarterly. His pros- 
pects were good, and no young man ever had better hopes 
of success. 

We cannot close this chapter without referring again to the 
fact that he dealt in that which made widows of wives, or- 
phans of children, and sent down the stream of life a rivulet 
of death. This fact was like a cloud hanging over his path ; 
and, though it was but as a speck far up in sky, who could 
tell what it might become ? 

CHAPTER VI. 

For a year the young couple were most happy. The mo- 
ments flew too quickly by ; so laden were they with joy, 
they would have them endure forever. " Little Jim " was a 
smart one, if he was n't as old as his father, and the hand- 
somest piece of furniture in the house ! Nobody doubted 
that ; at least, it would n't have been well for them to have 
expressed their d9ubt3 ir a very audible manner, if they held 
any. 



118 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Tasting, trying and judging of liquors, led to a loving, sip- 
ping and drinking of them. We may hate temperance, but 
it is certain we cannot hate a good without loving a bad 
thing. In offering for sale an article of food or beverage, the 
influence of our using it ourselves, or not using it, goes a 
great ways tOAvards our disposing of it, or our not disposing 
of it. James knew this, and acted accordingly. He always 
had the best of liquors in his house, as it was often the case 
that, after selling a man a large amount, he invited him 
home to dine. They, in turn, invited him out in the evening, 
and it was often a late hour when he returned. At home 
the presence of his wife prevented him from indulging too 
freely ; but away from home, and surrounded by gay compan- 
ions, he went as full lengths as any. 

Such indulgences could not continue long without showing 
their effects. George saw these, and remonstrated with him ; 
but Josephine could not or did not observe them. If he did 
not arrive home at the customary hour, she ever had an 
excuse for his delay. 

The arrival of another cargo of wines, etc., for Messrs. 

aneville & Co., was duly acknowledged by another 

carousal in the cabins of the vessel, which ended in results 

far more destructive to the reputation of James, and to the 

happiness of himself and friends, than the former. 

At a late hour Josephine sat waiting and watching, when 
the ring of the door-bell, the movement of the servant, the 
mingling of several suppressed voices, and the shuffle of foot- 
steps on the entry -floor, aroused her from that listless inac- 
tion which fatigue had brought upon her. She sprang to 
the door of her room, and, opening it, was about to descend, 
when her brother met her and requested her not to do so. 

" Why 7 " she inquired. 

He gave no definite answer to her inquiry, but requested 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. 119 

her to retire for the night, saying that James would probably 
be home in the morning, bright and early as the dawn. 

" And not before] " she inquired, in a tone of voice that 
startled her attentive brother. Then, as a stray thought of 
the former ship's party and its unfortunate results came into 
her mind, she exclaimed, "I Qiiust see him now! Let me 
know the worst. Nothing can keep me from him. James, 
my James ! " and, bursting from her brother's embrace, she 
ran down stairs, and, notwithstanding the remonstrance of 
her friends, opened the door Avhere half a dozen men and her 
husband had gathered. 

James lay upon a sofa, nearly unconscious of what was 
transpiring around him. Josephine daught the hand that 
hung loosely at his side, threw herself on the floor beside 
him, smoothed back his dishevelled hair, and kissed his 
flushed cheek. 

''James, James!" exclaimed she. Ho opened his eyes, 
gazed for a moment listlessly upon her, tlien closed them 
again. " 0, James ! don't you know me 7 James! say, — • 
wake thee, dearest ! " 

She pressed his hand in her own, and, as the tears fell 
freely from her eyes, so unused to weep, she continued her 
calls upon him who lay insensate before her. She whispered 
in his ear the breathings of her heart, or in louder tones 
gave vent to the grief that wounded it. 

Vainly did friends beseech her to i-etire ; vainly did they 
tell her she could not hasten his restoration to reason. She 
declared her determination to remain with him till morning. 

Day dawned. There, 5,t the side of her husband, sat the 
faithful wife, as neglective of her own wants as she was at- 
tentive to his. James began to realize his condition, but not 
fully. He had vague ideas of being in his own house, but 
.lis mind was at times wandering, and his words betrayed its 
condition. 



120 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

"Here I am," said he, "in a paradise, with an an^el at 
my side, and beautj and rich fragrance all around me. Seu 
jQu how that diamond sparkles at the bottom of this brook 
flowing at my feet ! Watch that dove as it comes down from 
the sky ! See, it nestles in my angel's bosom. See how it 
folds its wings ! See how she smooths down its ruffled 
plumage, and, hark ye, listen to its plaintive cooing ! My 
angel, my sweet one, come near me, let me whisper in thine 
ear. Go, bring me that bunch of luscious grapes which is 
suspended on that sapphire cloud, and make me wine of theia 
that gods might envy ! Ah, see, she goes, — she wings her 
flight, — she grasps the rich fruit, — she comes ! She presses 
the grapes, and here is wine, — from where 'I Fiom paradise ! 
Droop not, droop not, droop not, spirit of light ! Do not 
weep ! What are you weeping for 1 Here, let me wipe 
those tears away. Ah, they are pearls, they are not tears ! 
I thought they were tears. — Going so soon? — Gone?" 

He sank into a quiet sleep. Josephine had wept as she 
caught his words partly uttered in a whisper so low as to be 
scarcely distinguishable. Now, as he slept, she watched his 
breathings, and hoped that when he awoke he would be of a 
sane mind, and that a realization of what had occurred might 
influence his future career for the better. 

CHAPTER VII. 

"News!" exclaimed Capt. Thorndyke, as he shook the 
hand of his friend Basyl. " Have you not heard it? Why, 
it's common talk. Young Clifton^ imbibes rather too freely.' 
You know him, — Laneville & Co.'s clerk, — best judge of 
liquors in the states; strange that he will imbibe." 

" Strange indeed, very strange, if he is really a judge and 
knows what they 're made of," said Basyl; " and stranger yet 
that he will sell. For my part, I consider a man that will 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. 121 

jjell liquor, in these days of light and knowledge, as bad as a 
highwayman, and no better than a pirate." 

" Rather plain spoken." 

"I know it, but, look ye, there's Follet, a fine man, a 
first-rate man, once worth half a million, but now not worth 
a guinea-pig. The man that sold him good wine in his bet- 
ter days sells him poor whiskey now ; and the confounded 
dealer in fimcy poisons has taken the houses of Mr. Follet, 
brick by brick, and piled them up in his own yard, so to speak. 
Why, no longer ago than yesternight, he took a fine black 
coat of Dick Pherson, and gave him in return a coarse, 
brown one and a glass of sin — gin, I mean. Fudge ! talk 
about consistency ! That rumseller is nominated for an 
alderman, and he '11 be elected. He 's rich ; and all your 
say-so temperance men will vote for him, and when elected 
he '11 go hand-in-hand with some lone star, who deems it ad- 
visable that men should be licensed to corrupt the morals of 
the community, in order to make it wise and virtuous ! " 

The captain acknowledged that his friend had a right view 
of the matter, and, as he bade him good-day, promised to 
take care of his vote at the coming election. 

We doubt whether any man ever felt more deeply sensible of 
the wrong committed than did James, as he, the next morning, 
awaking from his long sleep, beheld his wife standing at his 
side, now weeping over him, now joyous and smiling at his 
returned consciousness, and closely attentive to his every 
want. He felt himself unworthy of such kindness, and for 
the first time in his life saw the evil of the doctrine he had 
all his lifetime advocated, namely, that a man can drink 
enough and not too much ; in other words, that he can guide 
his evil passions as he will, and command them to stop in 
their course, nor trespass on forbidden ground. 

But James even yet was opposed to the pledge, and, though 
George presented it with strong arguments, he refused to sign 
11 



122 HALF nOUR STOPJES. 

it, and laughed at the idea of his ever getting the AYOise for 
liquor again. 

The employer of James Clifton had his name on the same 
ticket with that of the rumseller before mentioned, as a can- 
didate for mayor. Election-day came. The two political 
parties had their tickets in the hands of scores of distributors. 
There was. a third party, with its ticket, the caption of which 
— "Temperance Men and Temperance Measures" — wag 
bandied about with gibes and sneers by the prominent mec 
of both other parties. 

Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceed 
ingly prepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the 
winning manner he possessed, disposed of a large number of 
tickets, even to men of the opposing party. " Vote for 
Laneville ! vote for Laneville ! " was his constant cry, save 
when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed the ability and 
worthiness of his candidate. Some said he was urged on by 
se]fish motives ; that, as he was a clerk of Lancville's, the 
election of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary 
benefit. But James Clifton cared for none of these insinua- 
tions. 

"Well, deacon, my dear, dear deacon, who do you vote 
for?" inquired a stanch teetotaller, as an old gentleman 
approached. The person addressed, after a little hesitation, 
during which a few nervous twinges of the mouth betrayed 
his nervousness of conscience, and the debate going on in his 
heart between consistency and principles on the one side, and 
party names and measures on the other, I'eplied, "Well, 
well," — then a pause, — " well, I don't know; go for the 
best man, I s'pose." 

"Here's the ticket, sir! the best man, sir, is Laneville ! 
vote for Laneville ! " shouted James, as he thrust his ticket 
into the hands of the old gentleman, and,, laying hold of hia 
arm, led him into the room, and saw him deposit the vote of 



THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK. 123 

a temperance advocate for a rumseller ! James Icniglied well 
over his victory, while the distributors of the temperance 
tickets felt somewhat ill at case in seeing -Jiim whom they 
thought their truest friend desert them in the hour of need, 
and give his vote and influence for the other party. 

The day ended; the votes were counted, and Laneville 
was proclaimed elected by a majority of owe .' 

The night was one of carousal. The betting on both sides 
had been considerable, and the payment of these debts caused 
the small change to circulate pretty freely among the dis- 
pensers of eatables and drinkables. 

This night James yielded more easily than ever before 
to the cravings of an appetite that began to master him. 

Poor fellow !* Deluded man ! A fond, a devoted, a trust- 
ing wife waiting at home, watching the hands of the clock ag 
they neared the mark of twelve, and listening for thy foot- 
fall ! Thou, trusting in thine own strength, but to learn thy 
weakness, lying senseless among thy drinking mates in the 
hall of dissolute festivity ! 

Tom Moore may sing in praise of " wine and its sparkling 
tide ; " but the sighing of wronged women and their tears 
shall toll the requiem of its praise. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Notwithstanding the entreaties of George, added to those 
of Josephine, James continued in the way he had begun to 
walk, and which was leading him to ruin. The arguments 
of the one, and the tears of the other, were equally unavail- 
ing. 

So far had he proceeded in a downward course that his 
employers remonstrated ; and the same arguments they had 
used upon their former clerks were urged upon his consider- 
ation. Fearing the loss of situation, he repented, but it was 
only to fall again before the power of that appetite with 



124 HALF HOUR PTOPxrrS. 

which he had tampered as "witli a torpid viper, which now 
folt the warmth of his embrace, and became a living, craving 
creature within his bosom. 

His oki companions perceived the change he was under- 
going, and, like butterflies that hovered about his path in 
sunshine, left him as clouds overshadowed his way. But he 
had 'friends who would not leave him. He had a wife who 
clung to hira with all the affection of woman's love, and a 
brother whose hand was ever extended to aid him. 

James saw the evil that threatened to overwhelm him ; 
yet, strangely infituated, he would not come to a fixed deter- 
mination to reform so ftir as to sign the pledge. 

The sun never shone with a brighter effulgence than it 
did on the morning of the 24th of July, 1849. The streets 
of Boston were filled with busy crowds, and bannei-s and 
flags streamed from balconies and windows. Delegates of 
men from the suburbs poured into the city, and the sound 
of music filled the air. Men, women, and children, the rich 
and the poor, the merchant and the mechanic, the American 
and the foreigner, joined in the movement ; and a stranger 
could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some great 
event was to transpire that day in the capital of the Old Bay 
State. Crowds gathered at the corners, and lined the prin- 
cipal thoroughfares. 

" He has blist his own country, an' now he will bliss 
ours," said a well-dressed Irishman. 

"An' that he will," was the response; " an' God bliss 
Father Mathew ! " 

" Amen," said half a dozen voices. 

*' He 's coming ! " exclaimed another. The sound of 
distant music was heard, and far up the street was seen 
approaching a dense mass of people. "White banners mingled 
with the stai*s and stripes. Nearer they approached, and 



THE WINE-DEALEll'S CLERK. 125 

more distinct became, to the Irishman and his friends, the 
peals of music and the hurras of the multitude. 

TuEOBALD Matiibav, the friend of Ireland, was making 
his entry into Boston ! Never man was more gladly welcome. 
Never was man more enthusiastically received. It seemed 
as though all men strove to do him homage, for they looked 
upon one who was the instrument, under God, of saving five 
million* of human beings from the grentest curse sin brought 
into the woidd ; lifting them, and bidding them stand up as 
their Maker intended they should. 

The " apostle " was seated in an open barouche, with his 
head uncovered, bowing to the crowds of stout men and fair 
women that filled the windows oh either side, often shaking 
hands with those who pressed near him to do so. 

A young man stood upon the side-walk watching its ap- 
proach ; and when the carriage in which he was seated came 
near where he stood, he took off his hat, pressed through 
the assemblage, and, urging his way towards it, grasped the 
hand that was extended to him. The carriage stopped. 
Father Mathew arose, and, as his hand lay upon the head 
of the young man, he repeated the words of a pledge, which 
the latter, in a distinct tone, repeated after him. At its 
close, the words " / c?o .' " were heard far and near, and 
James Clifton had taken the pledge ! 

This was done from no sudden impulse. During the 
previous week he had indulged rather freely, and when ita 
efiects were over he began for the first time to give serious 
thought upon the question whether it was not required of 
him to become a pledged man. He was becoming convinced 
that he was unsafe. He knew how often he had fallen, how 
liable he was to fall again, and that it might be never tc 
luse. He found his companions did not look upon him with as 
much respect as formerly ; and he determined to break down 
the pride of opinion, rather than have it break him down. 
11* 



126 HALF nOUK STORIES. 

As he thought of his situation at Messrs. Laneville & 
Co.'s, he for a moment drew back, yet it was but foi a 
moment. lie resolved to leave it, and beg rather than con- 
t.nue to disgrace himself and bring ruin upon his relatives 
and friends. He was clieercd by the thought that he had 
those around him who would furnish him with employment 
suited to his mind, and in the steady pursuit of which he 
might live well. This resolution was made a few days pre- 
vious to the twenty-fourth, but he communicated it to no 
one. 

James hurried from the crowd that gathered around him, 
•and hastened to his home. The glad news preceded him, 
and his wife, meeting him at the door, caressed, blessed and 
welcomed him. George grasped his hand, and James, with 
tears in his eyes, asked pardon for the past, and promised 
much for the future. 

" Once," said he, " I refused to sign. I trusted to my 
own self, and tliought because I was - young and strong I 
could resist temptation. I -said I would not make myself a 
slave to a pledge, and clung to my promise till I found my- 
self a slave to an appetite. I ask your pardon, George, for 
the manner in which I treated your request." 

" I grant it." 

" Then / am happy, loa are happy, and the future shall 
redeem the past." 

The door opened, and a bright-eyed boy, bounding into the 
room, sprang upon his father, and, with a smile, said, " Father, 
I 'm a Cadet of Temperance ! We formed a little society 
this morning, 'cause Father Mathew has come to Boston. 
We 've got si.Y names, and we are to have more." 

James kissed his child, and encouraged him to go on in 
the cause he had so early espoused. 

Messrs. Laneville & Co. engaged a new clerk, — a young 
nan of seventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the 



THE wine-dealer's CLERK. 127 

fate of , his predecessors, of the narrow escape of him whose 
place he was being trained to fill ; but, like tliem and him, 
he thought himself stronger than the tempter at his side. 
That firm is iu the home-desolating business to-daj, though 
James has used much endeavor to induce them to relinquish 
it. The young man is there to-day, open to temptations 
which have conquered many strong men, have destroyed 
many mighty. The pledge is with us to-day, open for those 
who have fallen, for those who yet stand, — an instrument 
of God, in human lands, to rescue the one and to preserve 
the other. 



ANGELINA. 

Blue-kted child, with flaxen ringlets, 

'Neath my -window played, one day ; 
And its tiny song of gladness, 

Sounded like an angel's lay. 
Roses bright in boanty blossomed 

Round the pith the cherub trod 
Yet it seemed that child was fairest, 

freshest from the hand of God. 

\Yatched I her till hour of sunset 

Told me of the coming night, 
And the sun o'er rook and mountain 

Shed its flood of golden light. 
Yet she gambolled, though the dew-drops 

Fell upon lier thick and flist ; 
Fearing ill, I went and told lier, — 

" Dearest child, the day hath past : 

" Haste thee to thy home, — there waiting 

Is thy parent, thee to bless." 
Then she hasted from tlie play-ground, 

To her mother's fond caress. 
Stars shone forth in all their splendor, 

And the moon with silver' light 
Rose in teiuty, and provided 

Queen o'er all the hosts of night. 

Days had passed ; I had not seen her, 
Ilad not heard her merry laugh, 

Nor those joyous tones that told me 
Of the joy her spirit quaffed. 



ANGELINA. 129 

Vain I asked whence Angelina 

Had departed, — none could tell ; 
Feared I then that sorrow gathered 

O'er the child I loved so well. 

Funeral train passed by my window, — 

Banished were all thoughts of mirth ; 
And I asked of one who lingered, 

" Who hath passed to heaven from earth? " 
In his eye a tear-drop glistened, 

As he, turning, to me said, 
" Heaven now holds another ang'el, — 

Little Angelina 's dead ! " 

I could scarce believe the tidings, 

Till I stood above her grave. 
And beheld those flaxen ringlets. 

That so late did buoyant wave, 
Lie beside a face whose features 

Still in death did sweetly smile 
And methought angelic beauty 

Lingered on her cheeks the while. 

At the pensive hour of twilight. 

Oft do augcl-footsteps tread 
Near her grave, and flowers in beauty 

Blossom o'er the early dead ; 
•And a simple marble tablet 

Thence doth unassuming rise. 
And these simple words are on it, — 

" Here our Angelina lies." 

Oft at night, when others slumber, 

One bends o'er that holy spot ; 
And the tear-drops fall unnumbered 

O'er her sad yet happy lot. 
Friends, though oft they mourn her absence, 

Do in meek submission bow ; 
For a voice from heaven is whispering, 

" Angelina 's happy now." 



130 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



FAllEAVELL, MY NATIVE LAND. 

Writtou for KAU-aK-QA-GAU-uowii, a roprosontativu from tho North-wost 
Tribes of Amorioau ludiaua to tho Poaoo Couveutiou in Frankfort-ou-tho- 
Maino, Uonuany ; aujil rccitod by him on board tlio British stojuuship 
Niagara, at tho hour of sailing from Uostou, July 10th, 1850. 

TuK day is brightening which wo long have sought ; 

I SCO its early light and hail its dawn ; 
Tho gontlo voioo ol iVaoo my oar hath caught, 

And I'ruui my Ibrcst-homo I givot tho morn, 
lloro, now, 1 moot yon with a brother's hand — 

Bid you liirowoU — thou sjiOixl mo on my way 
To join tlio whito mon in a I'oroign land, 

And from tho dawn bring on tho bright noou-day 
Noon-day of JVaco ! O, glorious jubiloo, 
>Y hou all mankind aro ono, from ?i>a to soa. 

Karowoll, my native land, i\)ek, liill, and plain ! 

Ivivor and lake, and fores t-l»oi»o, adieu ! 
M(*nths shall doivirt ore I shall tivad again 

Amid your scenes, and bo once more with you. 
I leave then) now ; but whorosoo'er I go, 

"NV hatover seeues of grandeut meet my eyes, 
My heart eau but one native country know, 

And that tiie fairi'st land beneath the skies. 
Au\erica ! farewell, thou art that gem, 
Brightest and fainvst in earth's diadem. 

hiuxd where my fathers ehastxl the [looting door , 

liiuui wlionoo the siuoko of eouncil-lires arose ; 
Lsmd wlioso own warriors ue\er know a fear ; 

lijind wheiv tho miglilv Mi.-^sissippi tlows ; 
Land wlioso bivad surfaiv spivads trom sea to sou , 

Lmd where Niagara thundei-s forth God's praiso , - - 
May reaoe and IMonry honeefortli dwell with theo, 

And o'er thee ^^'ar no mort.> itcj kuiuor raise ! 
Adieu, my native land, — hill, strt^uu, and dell ! 
The hour hath oomo to pirt us, — fiire thee well. 



UNLEARNED TO LOVE — WHAT WAS IT? 131 



UNLEARNED TO LOVE. 

He hath unloarncd to lovo ; for once he loved 

A Ij(!inj5 whom liiH Houl ahnont adored, 

And Hhe proved laitiiloHS ; turned in scorn upon 

His heart'H aflection.s ; to another gave 

The love she once did pledjre as all his own. 

And now he dotli not lovo. Within .liH heart 

llate dwellH in Bullen Hilenco. His soul broods 

Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes. 

Fancy ilo more builds airy caatles. 

Amid the crowd ho passes on alone. 

Tlie branches wave no more to please his eye. 

And the wind singeLli no sweet songs to him. 

Tlie murmuring brook l)ut murmurs discontent, 

And all his life is death since Lovo hath lied. 

O, who shall count his s(ut(jws? who shall make 
An estimate ol' his de(!p, burning woes, 
And place them all in order, rank on rank? 
Language is weak to tell the heart's deep wrongs. 
\Vc think, and muse, and in our endless thought 
We strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength 
The undefinable extent of spirit grief. 
And fail to accomplish tlio herculean task. 



WHAT 



H^S IT? 



It was a low, black, mis(;rable place; 
Its roof was rotting ; and above it hung 
A cloud of murky vapor, sending down 
Intolerable stench on all around. 

The place was silent, save tlie creaking noise. 
The steady motion of a dozen pumps. 
That labored all the day, nor ceased at night 



132 II AU?- IIOUK OTOIUES. 

Metliouglit in it I heard a hundred groans ; 
Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans ; 
Shrieks of some victim to the ficndislfclust 
Of men for gold ; woe echoing woe, 
And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair 
Around the place a dozen hovels stooil, 
, ■ .Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all ; 
'riioir windows had no glass, but rags and boards, 
Torn hats and such-like, Jilled the paueless sash. 
Beings, once men and wiuuen, in and out 
Passed and repassed fri)m ilarkness I'orth to light ; 
And children, raggotl, dirty, and despised, 
Clung to them. Children ! heaven's early flowers, 
In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost ! 
Children ! those jewels of a jnirent's crown, 
Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust. 
Children ! Heaven's representatives to man, 
Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate, 
And errand-boys to run at Sin's command. 

I asked why tlms it was ; and one old man 
Pushed up the visor of his cap, and Sivid : 
" That low, black building is tlio cause of all." 
And would you know wliat 't was that wi-ought such ill. 
And what the name of that low building was? 
Go to thy noighbt)r, read to him these .lines, 
.\nd if he docs not tell thee right, at first. 
Then come to me and you sliall know its name. 



LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING. 

There is nothing from which more real enjoyment can he 
derived than the art of letter- writing. All praise to the in- 
ventive genius that gave to man a written language, and with 
it the implements with which to talk across the world ! Did 
you ever think, reader, what a world this would he without 
pen, ink, and paper'/ Then, the absence of friends were 
painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, bade our ac- 
(juaintances "good-by," and saw the last, far-distant wave 
of the parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we 
thought we should never hear from them till we met face to 
face — perhaps never. But, as it is, when friends leave, we 
expect a message from their hearts soon, to solace our own. 
How we watch, and how we hope ! What a welcome rap is 
the postman's ! With what eagerness we loosen the seal ; 
with what pleasure we read, from date to signature, every 
wojd ! . 

It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to 
examine the various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a 
brief half-hour with those who have by their letters made 
grave or gay impressions on the public mind. 

Some write letters with great ease ; others, with great diffi- 
culty. Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There 
have been published six large volumes of letters written by 
her ; besides these, she left twelve quarto volumes of lettefs 
to a publisher of London, and these, it is said, are but a 
twelfth part of her correspondence. It seems as though she 
12 



13-i HALF HOUR STORIES. 

must have written nothing but letters, so many and various 
were they ; but her fivrae as an authoress will convince any 
one that her industry overcame what might seem an impossi- 
bility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that 
of the steam-writing machine, Dumas, of the present time. 

Lord Peterborough had such a facility for this kind of 
composition, that, when ambassador to Turin, according to 
Pope, who says he was a witness of the performance, he em- 
ployed nine a/iianucnscs, who were seated in a room, around 
whoui Lord Peterborough walked and dictated to each what 
ho should write. These nine wrote to as many difl'orent per- 
sons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects ; yet the 
ambassador retained in lys mind the connection of each letter 
so completely as to close each in a highly -finished and appro- 
priate manner. 

These focts show the ease and nipidity of some writers. 
Li contradistinction to these are the letters of many emi- 
nent Latin writers, who actually bestowed several months of 
close attention upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says : " Such 
is the defect of education among the modern Roman ladies, 
that they are not troubled to keep up any correspondence, 
because they cannot write. A princess of great beauty, at 
Naples, caused an English lady to be informed that she was 
learning to write ; and hoped, in the course of time, to ac- 
quire the art of correspondence." 

There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult 
task of their existence to write a letter. They follow the old 
Latin writers, and make a labor of what with others is a rec- 
reation. They begin with the stereotyped words, " I take 
my pen in hand," as though a letter could be written with- 
out doing so. Tlien follows, '' to inform you that I am well, 
and hope this will find you the same." There is a period — 
a full stop ; and there are instances of persons going no fur- 
ther, but closing with, " This from youi- friend, John Short." 



LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING. 135 



This " difficulty " arises not from an inability, but from an 
excessive nicety — a desire to write a prize essay, instead of 
a good, sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interest- 
ing, the writer must transfer his thoughts from his mind to 
his paper, as truly as the rays of the sun place the likeness 
of an object in front of the lens through which it acts upon 
the silvered plate. Seneca says, " I would have my letters 
be like my discourses when we sit or walk together, unstud- 
ied and easy.-" 

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." 
llis "Letters from Under a Bridge" are admirable speci- 
mens of letters as they should be ; and his " Pencillings by 
the Way " owe mucii of their popi^arity to their easy, famil- 
iar, talkative style. The letters of Cicero and Pliny, of an- 
cient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de Sevigne, and 
Lady Mary Wortlcy Montague, of modern times, are generally 
received as some of the best specimens extant of epistolary 
composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of 
brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety ; they have wit 
without buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He 
closes one of them by subscribing himself his friend's "af- 
flicted, headachey, sorethroaty, humble servant, Charles 
Lamij." 

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curi- 
osities in the form of correspondence. The letter of the 
mother of Foote is a good example of this kind of correspond- 
ence. Mrs. Foote became embarrassed, and, being unable to 
meet a demand, was placed in prison ; whereupon she wrote 
to Mr. Foote as follows : 

"Dear Sam : I am in pdson for debt; come, and assist 
your loving mother, E. Foote." 

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the 
meshes of the law, for he answered as follows : 



136 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" Dear Mother : — So' am I ; Avliich prevents his duty 
being paid to his loving mother bj her affectionate Son, 

"Sam Foote. 

"P. S. — I have sent my attorney to assist you ; in the 
mean time, let us hope for better days." 

These laconic epistles are well inatched by that of a French 
lady, who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, 
affection, &c., &c. : 

" I write to you because I have nothing to do ; I end my 
letter because I have nothing to say." 

But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of 
two Quakers, the one living, in Edinburgh, the other in London. 
The former, wishing to know whether there was anything new 
in London, wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small in- 
terrogation note, and sent it to his friend. In due time he 
received an answer. He opened the sheet and found, simply, 
0, signifying that there was none. 

In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the fol- 
lowing, purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical 
gentleman : 

" Cer: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hov 
a Bad kowld, am Hill in my Boav Hills, and hev lost mj 
Happy Tight." 

William Cowpcr, the poet, being on very familiar terms 
with the Rev. Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend 
with a letter, of which the following is a copy : 

" My vert dear Friend : I am going to send, what, 
when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I 
suppose, there 's nobody knows, whether Avhat I have got be 
verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be 
rhyme ; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such 
a ditty before ? 



LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING. 137 

" I have writ Cliaiitj, not for popularity, but as well as I 
could, in hopes to der'good; and if the reviewers shouldsay, 
' To be sure the gentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, 
you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, tliat she 
and her bard have little regard for the taste and fashions, 
and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of the modern day ; 
and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then 
wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can, 
the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on 
a new construction ; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap 
all that may come, with a sugar-plum.' His opinion in this 
will not be amiss ; "t is what I intend my principal end ; and 
if I succeed, and folks should read, till a few are brought to 
a serious thought, I shall think I am paid for all I have 
said, and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, 
after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end of my sense, 
and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am 
here, another year. 

" I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, 
and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that 
when you went in, you was forced to begin~~"a minuet pace, 
witli an air and a grace, swjmming about, nSW in and now 
out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or 
string, or any such thing ; and now I have writ, in a rhyming 
fit, what will make' you dance, and, as you advance, will keep 
you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and 
,gay, till you come to an end of wdiat I have penned ; which 
that you may do ere madam and you are quite Avorn out with 
jigging about, I take my leave ; and here you receive a bow 
profound, down to the ground, from your humble me, 

^ "W. C." 
^t one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time 

»orge Selwyn, SehMyn declared that a lady never closed a 
• without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended 
12* 



13S HALF HOUR STORIES 

her sex bj sajing that her next letter should prove he vraa 
wrong. Soon after, Selwyu received a letter from the ladj, 
iu which, after the name, was '"P. S. Who is right now, you 
orir' 

'•"We have met the enemv. ami they are our?'" is an 
example for naval letters. Commodoi-e Walton's letter, by 
which he gave information of his capture of a number c^ 
Spanish vessels of war, was as follows : 

*• We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or 
vessels on the coast, as per margin." 

General Taylor's letters are of the same class. — ^brief 
and to the point. 

As a specimen of «/fr«-familiarity. see the Duke of Buck- 
ingham's letter to King James the First, which he commences 
as follows^ '"Dear Dai> axp Gossip," and concludes 
thus : — " Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog, 

'- Stinie." 

Some letters have been distinguished for a play upc«i 
worvls. The following is supposed to have been written by 
one ZeWl Rock, a stone-cutter, to a ycJung lady for whcwm 
he cherished a lo^•e somewhat more than Platonic : 

'* DlYiXE Flint : Were you not hanler than Porphyry 
or Agate, the Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my 
fidelity, would have made some impression on thee. I, that 
have shapevl as I pleased the most untoward of substances, 
hoped by the Compass of reason, the Plummet of discp?tion, 
the Saw of constancy, the soft File of kimlness, and the Polish 
of goovl worvls, to have mo«.lelled you into one of the prettiest 
Statues in the world : but, alas ! I find you are a Flint, that 
strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your heart 
fs as cc>ld as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know 
i;ot what I say or da If I go to make a Dragon, I stjifce 
out a Cupid : instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I mal^a 



LETTERS AND LETTER-'WrvITING. lo9 

Oliuvoli Font for Baptism ; ami, dear Pillav of ny hopes, 
IVilostal of my comfort, and Cornice of my joy, take com- 
passion upon mo, for upon your pity I build all my hope, 
and Avill. if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks and Pyramids^ 
to your generosity." 

As a specimen of alliteration the following may be consid- 
ered a fair oft-hand cpistlo of love : 

" AnoiiED And Angelic Amelia: Accept An Ardent 
And Artless Amorist's Affections; Alleviate An Anguished 
Admirer's Alarms, And Answer An Amorous Applicant's 
Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An Awful As- 
pect ; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attract- 
ive Allurements, And ' Abuse An Ardent Attachment. 
Appease An Aching And Aff"ectionatc Adorer's Alarms, 
And Anon Acknowledge Alhanced Albert's Alliance As 
Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting An Aftec- 
tionate And Aflirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admir- 
er's Aching Adieu. Albert." 

The custom of espionage among some nations, which led 
the government officials to open all letters supposed to con- 
tain matters at variance with the plans and purposes of their 
masters, induced the inventive to contrive various means of 
correspondence. 

One of the most singular of these was that adopted by 
Ilistaus, the Milesian, as related by Herodotus. Ilistaus 
Avas " kept by Darius at Susa, under an honorable pretence, 
and, despairing of his return home, unless ho could find out 
some way that he might be sent to sea, he purposed to send 
to Aristagoras, who Avas his substitute at Miletura, to per- 
suade his revolt from Darius ; but, knowing that all passages 
were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course : 
he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head ho 
caused to be shaved oft", and then, upon his bald head, ho 



1-40 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

wrote his mind to Aristagoras; kept him privately about 
him, till his hair was somewhat .grown, and then bid him 
haste to Aristagoras, and bid him cause him to be shaved 
again, and then upon his head he should find what his lord 
had written to him." 

A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter- 
writing, and it would be by no means an uninteresting pro- 
duction. Years ago, when New England missionaries first 
taught the wild men of the South Sea Islands, it so happened 
that one of the teachers wished to communicate with a friend, 
and having no pen, ink and paper at hand, he picked up a 
chip and wrote with a pencil his message. , A native con- 
veyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought 
the chip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he 
have obtained it would doubtless have treasured it as a god, 
and worshipped it. And so would seem to us this invalua- 
ble art of letter-writing, were we in like ignorance. We 
forget to justly appreciate a blessing while we have it in 
constant use ; but let us be for a short time deprived of it, 
and then we lament its loss and realize its worth. Deprive 
mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the human 
mind all knowledge of letter- writing. — then estimate, if 
you can, the loss that would accrue. 

The good resulting from a general intercommunication of 
thought among the people has brought about a great reduc- 
tion in the rates of postage. We look forward to the time 
when the tens of millions now expended in war, and invested 
in the ammunition of death, shall be directed into other 
channels, and postage shall be free. What better defence for 
our nation than education 1 It is better than forts and 
vessels of Avar; better than murderous guns, powder and 
ball. Hail to the day when there shall be no direct tax on 
the means of education ! 



A VISION OF UEALIT'Y. 

I HAD a dream : IMethought one came 

And bade me with him go ; 
I followed, till, above the world, 

I wondering gazed below. 
One moment, horror filled my breast ; 

Then, slirinking from the sight, 
I turned aside, and sought for rest, 

Half dying with affright. 

My guide with zeal still urged me on ; 
' See, see ! " said he, " what sin hath ione; 
How mad ambition fills each breast, 
And mortals spurn their needed rest. 
And all their lives and fortunes spend 
To gain some darling, wished-for end ; 
And scarce they see the long-sought prize, 
When each to grasp it fails and dies." 

Once more I looked : in a lonely room, 
On a pallet of straw, were lying 

A mother and child ; no friends were near, 
Yet that mother and child were dying. 

A sigh arose ; she looked above. 

And she breathed forth, " I forgive ;" 

She kissed her child, threw back her head. 
And the mother ceased to live. 

riie child's blue eyes were raised to watch 
Its mother's smile of love ; 



142 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

She was not there, — her child she saw 
From her spirit-home above. 

An hour passed by : that child had gone 
From earth and all its harms ; 

Yet, as in sleep, it nestling lay 
In its dead mother's arms. 

I asked my guide, " What doth this mean? ' 
He spake not a word, but changed the scene. 

I stood where the busy throng 
Was hurrying by ; all seemed intent, 
As on some weighty mission sent ; 
And, as I asked what all this meant, 

A drunkard passed by. 

He spake, — I listened ; thus spake he : 
" Rum, thou hast been a curse to me ; 
My wife is dead, — my darling child. 
Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled, 
And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer, 
A father's love, a father's care, — 

He, he, too, now is gone ! 
How can I any longer live ? 
What joy to me can earth now give ? 
> Ki' ^ 've drank full deep from sorrow's cup,— 
When shall I drink its last dregs up ? 
When will the last, last pang be felt.? _ 
When the last blow on me be dealt? 

Would I had ne'er been born ! " ^ 

As thus he spake, a gilded coach 

In splendor passed by ; 
And from within a man looked forth, — 

The drunkard caught his eye 
Then, with a wild and frenzied look, 

He, trembling, to it ran ; 
He stayed tlie rich man's carriage there, 

And said, ' ' Thou art the man ! 



A VISION OF REALITY. 143 

•' Yes, thou the man ! You bade me come, 
You took my gold, you gave me rum; 
You bade me in the gutter lie, 
My wife and child you caused to die ; 
You took their bread, — 'twas justly theirs ; 
You, cunning, laid round me your snares, 
Till I foil in them ; then you crushed, 
And robJjed me, as my cries you hushed ; 
You 've bound me close in misery's thrall ; 
Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall ! " 

A momant passed, and all -was o'er, — 
He who 'd sold rum would sell no more 
And Justice seemed on earth to dwell, 
When by his victim's hand he fell. 
Yet, when the trial came, she fled. 
And Law would have the avenger, dead. 
The gilded coach may rattle by, 
Men too may drink, and drunkards die, 
And widows' tears may daily fall, 
And orphans' voices daily call, — 

Yet these are all in vain ; 
The dealer sells, and glass by glass 
He tempts the man to ruin pass. 

And piles on high his slain. 

His fellows flill by scores, — what then ? 

He, being rich (though rich hj fraud), 
Is honored by liis fellow-men. 

Who bend the knee and call him " lord." 

x\gain I turned ; 
Enough 1 'd learned 
Of all the misery sin hath brought ; 
I strove to leave the fearful spot, 
And wished the scene might be forgot, 
'T was so with terror fraught. 

I wished to go, 
No more to know. 



144 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

I turned me, but no guide stood there ; 
Alone, I shrieked in wikl dismay, 
When, lo ! the vision passed away, — 

I found lue seated in my chair. 

The morning sun was shining l)right. 
Fair children gambolled in my sight; 
A rose-bush in my window stood. 

And shed its fragrance all around ; 
My eye saw naught but fair and good, 

My car heard naught but joyous sound. 

I asked me, can it bo on earth 
Such scenes of horror have tlieir birth, 
As those that in ray vision past, 
And on my mind their shadows cast ? 

Can it be true, that men do pour 
Foul poison forth for sake of gold ? 

And men lie weltering in their gore, 
Led on by that their brethren sold ? 

Doth man so bend the supple knee 
To Mammon's shrine, he never hears 

The voice of conscience, nor doth see 
His 111171 in the wealth he rears ? 

Such questions it were vain to ask. 

For Reason whispers, " It is so ;" 
While some in fortune's sunshine bask, 

Others lie crushed beneath their woe. 
And men do sell, and men do pour, 

And for their gold return men death ; 
Though wives and children them implore, 

With tearful eyes and trembling breath, 
And hearts with direst anguish riven, 

No more to sell, — 't is all in vain ; 
They, urged to death, by avarice driven. 

But laugh and turn to sell again. 



JEAVELS OF THE HEART. 145 



JEWELS OF THE HEART. 

Thkre are jewels brighter ^r 
Than the sparkling diamonds arc ; 
Jewels never wrought by art, — 
Nature forms them in the heart ! 

Would yo know the names they hold ? 
Ah ! they never can be told 
In the language mortals speak ! 
Human words are far too weak 

Yet, if you would really know 
What these jewels are, then go 
To some low, secluded cot, 
Where the poor man bears his lot ! 
Or, to where the sick and dying 
'Neath the ills of life arc sighing. 

And if there some one ye see 

Striving long and patiently 

To alleviate the pain. 

Bring the light of hope again ! 

One whose feet do lightly tread. 

One whose hands do raise the head, 

One who watches there alone, 
Every motion, every tone ; 
Unaware an eye doth see 
All these acts of charity. 

Know that in that lonely cot, 
Wliere the wealth of earth is not, 
These bright jewels will be found, 
Shedding love and light around ! 

Say, shall gems and rubies rare 

With these heart-shrined gems compare ? 

13 



146| HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Constancy, that will not perish, 
But the thing it loveth cherish, 
Clinging to it fondly ever, 
Fainting, faltering, wavering, never ! 

Trust, that will not harbor doubt ; 
Putting fear and shame to rout, 
Making known how, free from harm, 
Love may rest upon its arm. 

Hope, that makes the future bright, 
Though there come a darksome night ; 
And, though dark despair seems nigh, 
^ Bears the soul up manfully ! 

These are gems that brighter shine 
Than they of Golconda's mine. 
Born amid love's fond caresses, 
Cradled in the heart's recesses. 
They will live when earth is old, 
Marble crumble, perish gold ! 

Live when ages shall have past, 
While eternity shall last ; 
Be these gems the wealth you share. 
Friends of mind, where'er you are ! 



LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND, 

Here at thy grave I stand, 
But not in tears ; 
• Light from a better land 
Banishes fears. 

Thou art beside me now, 

"Whispering peace , 
Telling how happy thou 

Found thy release ! 



POOR AND WEARY. 147 

Thou art not buried here ; 

Why should I mourn ? 
All that I cherished dear 

Heavenward hath gone ! 

Oft from that world above 

Come ye to this ; 
Breathing in strains of love 

Unto me bliss ! 



POOR AND WEARY! 

In a low and cheerless cot 
Sat one mourning his sad lot ; 
All day long he 'd sought for labor ; 
All day long his nearest neighbor 
Lived in affluence and squandered 
"Wealth, while he an outcast wandered, 
And the night with shadowy wing 
Heard him this low moanmg sing : 
" Sad and weary, poor and weary. 
Life to me is ever dreary ! " 

Morning came ; there was no sound 
Heard within. Men gathered round. 
Peering through the window-pane ; 
They saw a form as if 't were lain 
Out for burial. Stiff and gaunt 
Lay the man who died in want. 
And mcthought I lieard that day 
Angel voices whispering say, 
" No more sad, poor and weary, 
Life to me no more is dreary ! " 



THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT. 

" There ! Mr. McKenzie, I declare ! You are the most 
oncommon, oncivil man I ever sot eyes on ! " 

" Peace, my ladj ! I '11 explain." 

" Then do so." 

" You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of 
bandboxes, — so great, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, 
I involuntarily raise my foot and kick it." 

"So it appears," chimed in Mrs. McKenzie, with a sig- 
nificant Imnch of the right shoulder. 

" Therefore, " 

" Well, go on ! what you waitin' for? " 

" Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, 
as I came down, sitting, as it did, directly at the foot of the 
stairs, I jumped on it, thinking I would come over it that 
time " 

" An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost — let me see ! " 

" No matter ! " said Mr. McKenzie ; " that will be in the 
bill." 

Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on 
his head and rushed from the house, fearful of another on- 
slaught of " oncommon oncivilities." 

A little shop at the North End, — seven men seated round 
said shop, — a small dog growling at a large cat, a large cat 
making a noise resembling that produced by root-beer con- 
fined in a stone bottle by a cork bound down witb a piece of 
twine. Reader, imagine you see and hear all this ! 



THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT. 149 

[Enter Mr. McKenzie.] " Gentlemen, something must 
be done to demolish the idea held bj the ' rest of mankind ' 
that thej, the women, cannot exist without owning as per- 
sonal property an indefinite number of bandboxes. I there- 
fore propose that we at once organize for the purpose ; that 
a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and report a 
name for the confederacy." 

Voted unanimously ; whereupon, a committee being ap- 
pointed, after a short session, reported the following 
"whereas, etc." 

" Whereas, We, in our perambulations up and down the 
earth, are frequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with 
annoyances of various kinds ; and, as the greatest, most per- 
plexing, most troublesome and iniquitous of these, generally 
assumes the shape of a bandbox, in a bag or out of one ; 
and, whereas, our wives, our daughters, our sisters, and our 
female acquaintances generally and particularly, manifest a 
determination to put said boxes in our way, at all times, and 
under all circumstances, therefore 

' ' Resolved, That — we — wont — stand — it — any — 
longer ! ! ! 

" Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the 
purpose of annihilating this grievous evil, and all bandboxes, 
of every size and nature. 

" Resolved, That this society be known by the name of 
' The Bandbox Extermination Association.' " 

The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in 
which he stated that, in the performance of the duties which 
would devolve upon the members, they would, doubtless, meet 
with some opposition. " But, never mind," said he; "it is 
a glorious cause, and if we get the tongs at one time, and the 
hearth-brush another time, let 'em come ! " He defined the 
duties of members to be, — first and foremost, to pay six and 
a quarter cents to defray expenses ; to demolish a bandbox 
13* 



150 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

wherever and whenever there should be one ; (for instance^ 
if a fat woman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her 
arms, that box should be forcibly taken and burned on the 
spot, or whittled into such minute particles that it could no 
more be seen ; if, in an omnibus warranted to seat twelve, 
jfifteen men are congregated, and an individual attempts to 
enter with a bandbox, the box shall have notice to quit.) 

"The manner of demolition," he said, further, "might 
be variously defined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to 
kick the box would wound her feelings, and it were best to 
apparently unintentionally seat yourself on it ; then beg a 
thousand pardons, and, as you, in your efforts to make it 
better, only make it worse, give it up in despair, and console 
the owner by a reference to spilt milk and the uselessness of 
crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they must look out 
for themselves. If they get injured, hint that they should 
keep out of bad company." 

The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was 
more than unanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted 
with both hands*) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and 
all the remarks that had Been made in connection with them. 
Members paid their assessments, and with a hearty good will. 

Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow." Mrs. 
McKenzie's fretfulness on account of her husband's patriot- 
ism led to the formation of a society that will make rapid 
strides towards the front rank of the army now at work for 
the amelioratio i of the condition of mankind. 

* That was McKenzie. 



NEW ENGLAND HOMES. 

I 'vE been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth, 
O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth ; 
But whereso'er I wandered, vfherever I did roam, 
I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home. 

I 've seen Italia's daugliters, beneath Italian skies ; 
Seen beauty in their happy smiles, and love within their eyes ; 
But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore, 
In preference to the dwellers in the valley of Lanore. 

I 've watched the sun's departure behind the " Eternal Hills," 
When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills; 
But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power, 
More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour. 

I love my own New England ; I love its rocks and hills ; 
I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills ; 
I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth ; 
I love, 0, how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth ! 

Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams, 
That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams; 
But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales, 
As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England valeh 

0, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my brow 
Shall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now ; 
When age shall claim its sacrifice, and I no more shall roam, 
Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home ! 



152 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



LOVE THAT WANES NOT. 

O, WHEN should Love's true beacons glow the brightest, 
If not when darkness shrouds the path we tread ? 

When should its tokens, though thej be the slightest, 
Be given, if not when clouds are overhead ? 

When light is 'round us, and when joys are glowing, 
Some hand may press our own, and vow to cherish 

A love for us which ne'er shaU cease its flowing, — 
And yet that love, when darkness comes, may perish. 

But there is love which will outlive all sorrow. 
And in the darkest hour be nigh to bless, — 

Which need not human art or language borrow, 
Its deep affection fondly to express. 

The mother o'er the child she loveth bending 
Need not in words tell others of her love ; 

For, on the wings of earnest prayer ascending, 
It rises, and is registered above. 

0, such is love — all other is fictitious ; 

All other 's vanquished by disease and pain ; 
But this, which lives when fate is unpropitious, 

Shall rise to heaven, and there an entrance gain. 



ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY. 

Bend thee to action — nerve thee to duty ! 

Whate'er it may be, never despair ! 
God reigns on high, — ^ pray to liim truly, 

He will an answer give to tliy prayer. 

Shrinketh thyself from crosses before thee ? 

Art thou so made as to tremble and fear ? 
Confide in thy God ; he will watch o'er thee ; 

Hum1)ly and trustingly, brotlior, draw near ! 



A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG. 153 

Clouds may be gathering, light may depart, 

Earth that thou treadest seem crumbling away ; 

New foes, new dangers, around thee may start, 
And spectres of evil tempt thee astray. 

Onward courageously ! nerved for the task, 
Do all thy duty, and strength shall be thine ; 

Whate'er you want in humility ask. 

Aid shall be given from a source that 's divine. 

Do all thy duty faithful and truly ; 

Trust in thy Maker, — he 's willing to save 
Thee from all evil, and keep thee securely. 

And make thee triumphant o'er death and the grave. 



A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG. 

Within these woods, beneath these trees, 

We meet to-day a happy band ; 
All joy is ours, — we feel the breeze 

Blow gently o'er our native land. 
How brightly blooms each forest flower ! 

What cheerful notes the wild bird sings ! 
How nature charms our festive hour. 

What beauty round our pathway springs ! 

The aged bear no weight of years ; 

The good old man, the matron too, 
Forget their ills, forget their fears, 

And range the dim old forests through 
With youth and maiden on whose cheek 

The ruddy bloom of health doth glow. 
And in whose eyes the heart doth speak 

Oft more than they would have us know. 

How pleasant tlius it is to dwell 
Within the shadow of this wood. 

Where rock and tree and flower do tell 
To al/ that nature's God is good ! 



154 HALF HOUR STORIES, 

Here nature's temple open stands, — 
There 's none so nobly grand as hers, — 

The sky its roof ; its floor, all lands, 
While rocks and trees are worshippers. 

There 's not a leaf that rustles now, 

A bird that chants its simple lays, 
A breeze that passing fans our brow, 

That speaks not of its Maker's praise. 
0, then, let us who gather here 

Praise Him who gave us this glad day, 
And when the twilight shades appear 

Pass with his blessing hence away ! 



THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 

CHAPTERI. 

Rome was enjoying the blessings of peace ; and so little 
employment attended the soldier's every-day life, that the 
words " as idle as a soldier " became a proverb indicative of 
the most listless inactivity. 

The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The 
sound of music was heard from all parts of the city, and per- 
fumed breezes went up as an incense from the halls of beauty 
and mirth. 

It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven 
hills ; and its people rejoiced as they had not for many a 
long, long year — ay, for a century. 

" Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad 
reign See you how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on 
our eternal hills ? The tinkling bell is a sweeter sound than 
the trumpet's blast: and the curling smoke, arising from the 
hearth-stones of contented villagers, is a truer index of a 
nation's power than the sulphurous cloud from the field of 
battle. What say you, Alett, — is it not ? " 

Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one 
arm encircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were 
useless to attempt a description. There are some phases of 
beauty which pen cannot describe, nor pencil portray, — a 
beauty which seems to hover around the form, words, and 
motions of those whose special recipients it is ; a sort of ethe- 



156 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

real loveliness, concentrating the tints of the rainbow, the 
sun's golden rajs, and so acting upon the mind's eye of the 
observer as almost to convince him that a visitant from a 
sphere of perfection is in his presence. 

Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a 
distinguished general, whose name was the terror of all the 
foes, and the confidence of all the friends, of Italy — his 
eldest daughter ; and with love approaching idolatry he 
dierished her. She was his confidant. In the privacy of 
her faithful heart he treasured all his plans and purposes. 
Of late, the peaceful security in which the nation dwelt 
gave him the opportunity of rertuiining at home, where, in 
the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he 
almost idolized, and friends whose friendship was not ficti- 
tious, he found that joy and comfort which the camp could 
never impart. 

Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young 
man whose apostrophe to peace we have just given. 

Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the 
worldly acceptation of the term. It was noble, indeed, but 
not in deeds of war or martial prowess. Its nobleness con- 
sisted in the steady perseverance in well-doing, and a strict 
attachment to what conscience dictated as right opinions. 
The general loved him for the inheritance he possessed in 
such traits of character, and the love which existed between 
his daughter and the son of a plebeian was countenanced , 
under such considerations, with one proviso ; which was, 
tli.it. being presented with a commission, he should accept it, 
:i!id hold himself in readiness to leave home and friends ■when 
duty should call him to the field of battle. 

We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful emi- 
nence, in the rear of the general's sumptuous mansion. 

The sun was about going down, and its long, golden ray? 



THE warrior's BRIDE. 157 

Streamed over liill aud dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a 
voluptuous flow of rich light. 

They had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at 
the quiet aud beautiful scene before them, when the musical 
voice of Kubineau broke forth in exclamations of delight at 
the blessings of peace. 

Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on 
Avhich she delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, 
full eyes up towards those of Kubineau, she said, 

" Even so it is. Holy Peace ! It is strange that men 
will love the trumpets blist, and the smoke and the heat 
of the conflict, better than its gentle scenes. Peace, peace ! 
blessings on thee, as thou givest blessings ! " 

Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul 
of admiration. He gazed upon her with feelings he had 
never before felt, and which it was bliss for him to experi- 
ence. 

She, the daughter of an ofiicer, brought up amid all the 
glare and glitter, show and blazonry, of military life, — she, 
who had seen but one side of the great panorama of martial 
life, — to speak thus in praise of peace, and disparagingly 
of the profession of her friends — it somewhat surprised the 
first speaker. 

"It is true," he replied ; '■ bat- how uncertain -"s the con- 
tinuance of the blessings we now enjoy ! To-morrow 
may sound the alarm which shall call me from your side to 
the strife and tumult of war. Instead of your gentle words, 
I may hear the shouts of the infuriated soldiery, the cry of 
the wounded, and the sighs of the dying." 

" Speak not so," exclaimed Alett; " it must not be." 

" Do you not love your country 1 " inquired the youth. 

" I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors 
enough ready for the battle. It need not be that you go. 
But why this alarm? We were talking of peace, and, 
14 



158 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

behold, now we have the battle-field before ua — war and all 
its panoply ! " 

"Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble; 
but at times, when I am with jou, and tbinking of our pres- 
ent joy, the thought will arise that it may be taken from 
us." No more words were needed to bring to the mind of 
Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. They embraced each 
the other more affectionately than ever, and silently repaired 
to the house of the general. 

CHAPTERII. 

" To remain will be dishonor ; to go may be death ! When 
a Roman falls, the foe has one more arrow aimed at his 
heart ; an arrow barbed with revenge, and sent with unerring 
precision. Hark ! that shout is music to every soldier's ear. 
Hear you that tramp of horsemen 1 that rumbling of chariot- 
wheels ? " 

Twelve months had passed since the time of the last chap- 
ter, and, after repeated threatenings, war had actually begun. 

Instead of idle hours, the soldiers had busy moments, and 
every preparation was made to meet the opposing array in a 
determined manner, and with a steadiness of purpose that 
should insure success. 

The general watched for some time the fluctuating appear- 
ance of public affairs, and it was not until war was not only 
certain, but actually in progress, that he called upon Ru- 
bineau to go forth. 

A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be united in 
marriage ; and invitations had been extended far and near, 
in anticipation of the event. It had been postponed from 
week to week, Avith the hope that the various rumors that 
were circulated respecting impending danger to the country 
might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundation on some 
weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow. 



THE warrior's BRIDE. 159 

Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering 
together of the soldiery betokened the certainty of an event 
which would fall as a burning meteor in the midst of the 
betrothed and their friends. 

The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and its answer 
admitted of no delay. 

" To remain,'' said the general, " will be dishonor ; to go 
may be death : Avhich will you choose ? " 

It was a hard question for the young man to answer. But 
it must be met. The general loved him, and with equal 
unwillingness the question Avas presented and received. 

"I go. If Rubineau falls " 

"If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupting him, 
" honor, and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, 
shall be his — all his." 

It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sul- 
try atmosphere of the day had given place to cool and gentle 
breezes. The stars were all out, shining as beacons at the 
gates of a paradise, above ; and the moon began and ended 
her course without the attendance of one cloud to veil her 
beauties from the observation of the dwellers on earth. 

Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, culti- 
vated by the fxir hand of the latter. 

The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All the 
happy scenes of the coming week were to be delayed, and 
the thought that they might be delayed long — ay, forever 
— came like a shadow of evil to brood in melancholy above 
the place and the hour. 

We need not describe the meeting, the parting. 

"Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. 
Let us hope for the best. Yet a strange presentiment I havo 
that I shall not return." 



160 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

"0 that I could go with jou ! " said Alett. "Think 
you father would object 7 " 

"That were impossible. Nothing but love, true and 
enduring, could make such a proposal. It would be incur- 
ring a two-fold danger." 

"Death would be glorious with jou, — life insupportable 
without you !'' 

In such conversation the night passed, and when the early 
light of morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound 
of a trumpet called him away. 

The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the 
general, all unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those 
of his family as the parting kiss was given, and Rubineau 
started on a warfare the result of which was known only 
to Him who governs the destinies of nations and of individ- 
uals. 

And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furi- 
ously. Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none 
was more brave than he.. It seemed' to his fellow-ofiicers 
that he was urged on by some unseen agency, and guarded 
from injury by some spirit of good. 

To himself but one thought was in his mind ; and, regard- 
less of danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and 
honor to himself and friends. 

Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courage- 
ous action, and followed like true men where he led the way. 

They had achieved several victories, and were making an 
onset upon numbers four-fold as large as their own, when 
their leader received a severe wound, and, falling from his 
noble horse, would have been trampled to death by his fol- 
lowers, had not those who had seen him fall formed a circle 
around as a protection for him. 

This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the sol- 



THE warrior's BRIDE. 161 

diers ; they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe 
make a rapid retreat. 

The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau 
came with a blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, " On, 
brave men ! " But the eifort was too much for him to sus- 
tain for any length of time, and he fell back completely ex- 
hausted. 

He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed 
upon him. As night approached, and the cool air of even- 
ing fanned his brow, he began to revive, but not in any great 
degree. 

The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to 
fear the worst ; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he 
was now but poorly prepared to meet it. 

"Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded 
quietly among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of 
the wounded. 

And it was so. His friends had gathered around his 
couch, and, conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he 
bade them all farewell, and kissed them. 

" Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that 
her Rubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the 
closest, and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew 
powerless ; and, 0, tell her that it was all for her sake, — 
love for her nerved his arm, and love for her is borne" 
upward on his last, his dying prayer. Tell her to love 
as I ■ " 

" He is gone, sir," said the surgeon. 

" Gone ! " exclaimed a dozen voices. 

"A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he 
raised his arm, and wiped the flowing tears from His 
cheek. 

14* 



162 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



CHAPTER III, 



At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news 
from the war sent a thrill of joj through the hearts of its 
inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told of victory and 
honor ; but now a sad chapter was to be added to the history 
of the conflict. 

Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the 
messenger, who, at all previous times, had come with a quick 
step. In her soul she felt the keen edge of the arrow that 
was just entering it, and longed to know all,- dreadful though 
it might be. 

Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure ? If the 
reader has followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has 
presumed, conjectured, and fancied, — followed all its hopes 
of future bliss, and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor 
and earthly fame, — he can form some idea, very faint though 
it must be, of the effect which followed the recital of all the 
facts in regard to the fallen. 

In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep 
feelings of her soul Avith words that told how deep was her 
sorrow, and how unavailing every endeavor which friends 
exerted to allay its pangs. 

She would not believe him dead. Sfie would imagine him 
at her side, and would talk to him of peace, " sweet peace," 
and laugh in clear and joyous tones as she pictured its bless- 
ings, and hei'self enjoying with him its comforts. 

Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to 
grief; and, with her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice. 

And so passed her lifetime. 

Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in 
which she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, 
she remained seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side 
Stood the helmet and spear he had carried forth on the 



THE warrior's BRIDE. 163 

morning when they parted. At such times, she was as calm 
as an infant's slumberings, saying that she was waiting for 
the sound of the marriage-bells ; asked why they did not 
ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness — the 
Warrior's Bride. 



THE ADVENT OF HOPE. 

Once on a time, from sc3nes of light 
An angel winged his airy flight ; 
Down to this earth in haste he came, 
And wrote, in lines of living flame. 
These words on everything he met, — 
" Cheer up, be not discouraged yet ! ' 

Then back to heaven with speed he flew. 
Attuned his golden harp anew , 
Whilst the angelic throng came round 
To catch the soul-inspiring sound ; 
And heaven was filled with new delight, 
For Hope had been to earth that night. 



CHILD AND SIRE. 

" Kjs'Ow you what intemperance is? " 

I asked a little child. 
Who seemed too young to sorrow know, 

So beautiful and mild. 
It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand, 

And to a church-yard near 
It pointed, whilst from glistening eye 

Came forth the silent tear. 



CHILD AND SIRE. 165 

" Yes, for yonder, in that grave, 

Is my father lying ; 
And these words he spake to me 

"While he yet was dying : 

" ' Mary, when the sod lies o'er me 

And an orphan child thou art, — 
When companions ask thy story, 

Say intemperance aimed the dart. 
When the gay the wine-cup circle, 

Praise the nectar that doth shine. 
When they 'd taste, then tell thy story, 

And to earth they '11 dash the wine.' 

" And there my dear-loved mother lies, — 

What bitter tears I 've shed 
Over her grave ! — I cannot think 

That she is really dead. 
And when the spring in beauty blooms, 

At morning's earliest hour 
I hasten there, and o'er her grave 

I plant the little flower. 

" And patiently I watch to see 

It rise from out the earth. 
To see it from its little grave 

Spring to a fairer birth. 
For mother said that thus would she, 

And father, too, and I, 
Arise from out our graves to meet 

In mansions in the sky. 

" 0, what intemperance is, there 's none 

On earth can better tell. 
Intemperance me an orphan made. 

In this wide world to dwell ; 
Intemperance broke my mother's heart, 

It took my father's life. 
And makes the days of man below 

With countless sorrows rife." 



166 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" Know jou what intemperance is ? " 

I asked a trembling sire, 
Whose lamp of life burned dim, and 

As though 't would soon expire. 
He raised his bowed head, and then 

Methought a tear did start, 
As though the question I had put 

Had reached his very heart. 



He raised his head, but 't was to bow 

It down again and sigh ; 
Methought that old man's hour had come 

In which he was to die. 
Not so ; he raised it up again, 

And boldly said, " I can ! 
Intemperance is the foulest curse 

That ever fell on man. 

" I had a son, as fair, as bright 

As ever mortal blest ; 
And day passed day, and year passed yea/ 

Whilst I that son carest. 
For all my hopes were bound in him ; 

I thought, from day to day, 
That when old age should visit me 

That son would be my stay. 

" I knew temptations gathered near, 

And bade him warning take, — 
Consent not, if enticed to sin, 

E'en for his father's sake. 
But in a fearful hour he drank 

From out the poisonous bowl, 
And then a pang of sorrow lodged 

Within my inmost soul. 

" A year had passed, and he whom I 

Had strove in vain to save 
Fell, crushed beneath intemperance. 

Into a drunkard's grave. 



CHILD AND SIRE. 167 

O, brother, I can tell to thee 

What vile intemperance is, 
When one in whom I fondly hoped 

Met such an end as his ! 

" This was not all ; a daughter I 

Was blest with, and she passed 
Before me like an angel-form 

Upon my pathway cast. 
She loved one with a tender love. 

She left her father's side. 
And stood forth, in her robes of white, 

A young mechanic's bride. 

" She lived and loved, and loved and lived, 

For many a happy year ; 
No sorrow clouded o'er her path. 

But joy was ever near. 
Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent, 

Were joyful ones we passed ; 
Alas ! too free from care were they 

On earth to always last. 

" Then he was tempted, tasted, drank, 

And then to earth he fell ; 
And ever after misery 

Within that home did dwell. 
And soon he died, as drunkards die, 

With scarce an earthly friend. 
Yet one bent o'er him tenderly 

Till life itself did end. ' 

" And when life's chord was broken, when 

His spirit went forth free. 
In all her anguish then she came 

To bless and comfort me. 
Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve months 

Had passed o'er her head. 
And in yon much-loved church-yard now 

She resteth with the dead. 



168 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" That little child you spoke to is 

The child she left behind ; 
I love her for her mother's sake, 

And she is good and kind.. 
And every morning, early, to 

Yon flowery grave she '11 go ; 
And I thank my God she 's with me 

To bless me here below. 

" I had a brother, but he died 

The drunkard's fearful death ; 
He bade me raise a warning voice 

Till Time should stay my breath. 
And thousands whom in youth I loved 

Have fallen 'neath the blast 
Of ruin which intemperance 

Hath o'er the wide world cast." 

He spoke no more, — the gushing tears 

His furrowed cheeks did leap ; 
The little child came quick to know 

What made the old man weep. 
He, trembling, grasped my hand and said 

(The little child grasped his), 
" May you ne'er know, as I have known, 

What sad intemperance is ! " 

And since that hour, whene'er I look 

Around me o'er the earth. 
And see the wine-cup passing free 

'Mid scenes of festive mirth, 
I think how oft it kindleth up 

Within its raging fire, 
And fain would tell to all the truths 

I heard from " Child and Sire." 



A brother's welcome. 169 



A BROTHER'S WELCOME. 

Welcome, brother, welcome home ! 
Here 's a father's hand to press thee ; 
Here 's a motlier's heart to bless thee ; 
Here 's a brother's will to twine 
Joys fraternal close with thine ; 
Here 's a sister's earnest love, 
Equalled but by that above ; 
Here are friends who once did meet thee, 
Gathered once again to greet thee. 

Welcome, brother, welcome home ! 
Thou hast wandered far away ; 
Many a night and many a day 
We have thought where thou might'st be, 
On the land or on the sea ; 
Whether health was on thy cheek, 
Or that word we dare not speak 
Hung its shadowy wing above thee, 
Far away from those who love thee. 

Welcome, brother, welcome home ! 
Here, where youthful days were spent 
Ere life had its labor lent. 
Where the hours went dancing by, 
'Neath a clear, unclouded sky. 
And our thanks for blessings rendered 
Unto God were daily tendered, 
Here as ever pleasures reign. 
Welcome to these scenes again ! 
15 



THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION. 

It is well for man to consider the heavens, the work of 
God's hands ; the moon and the stars, which He has created. 
To look forth upon the universe, of which we form a part, 
fills us with high and ennobling thoughts, and inspires us 
with an earnest desire to press onward in the endless path, 
at every step of which new wonders and new joys spring up 
to greet our vision, and to gladden our souls. 

Whichever way we look, above or below us, to the right or 
the left, we find a boundless expanse teeming with life and 
its enjoyments. This earth, large as it may appear to us, is 
less than a grain of sand in size, when compared with the 
vastness around it. 

Take your soul away from earth, and send it on a mission 
of research among other worlds. Let it soar far away to 
where the dog-star, Sirius, holds its course ; and then, though 
nineteeii billion two himdied tnillion miles from earthy a 
distance so great, that light, travelling, as it does, at the rate 
of six million six hundred and twenty thousand miles a min- 
ute, would require three years to pass it, — even then, when 
the journeying spirit had reached such a point, it might pass 
on and on, — new worlds meeting its gaze at every advance, 
and new wonders being seen as far beyond the point it had 
attained as the inconceivable length of the path it had already 
travelled multiplied a myriad of times. 

We can scarcely comprehend the vast distance of Sirius ; 
yet, great as this distance is, it is the nearest star to our 



THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION. 171 

system, and stars have been seen whose distance from the 
earth is estimated to be a thousand times as great ! 

Can human mind mark that range \ A thousand times 
nineteen billion two hundred million ! And were we to stand 
on the last of these discovered stars, we might look yet 
far beyond, and see " infinity, boundless infinity, stretching 
on, unfathomed, forever." 

To have an idea of the vastness of creation, we must pos- 
sess the mind of the Creator. What are we ? We live and 
move and have our being on a grain of creation, that is being 
whirled through boundless space with inconceivable rapidity. 
And we affect to be proud of our estate ! We build houses, 
and we destroy them ; we wage war, kill, brutify, enslave, 
ruin each other; or, we restore, beautify, and bless. We 
are vain, sometimes. We think the world was made for us ; 
the stars shine for ?/5, and all the hosts that gem the drapery 
of night created for our special benefit. Astonishing pre- 
sumption ! — born of ignorance and cradled in credulity ! 

The mind grows dizzy as it attempts to conceive of constel- 
lation beyond constellation, on and on. through endless space. 

Commencing with this earth, the mind given up to serious 
reflection muses upon its broad extent of territory, its conti- 
nents and its oceans, and it appears very large indeed. For- 
getting, for a moment, its knowledge of other planets, it be- 
lieves that this world is the whole universe of God ; that the 
sun, moon and stars, are but lights in the firmament of heaven 
to give light upon the earth. But truth steps in and changes 
the mind's view. It shows that, large and important as this 
earth may appear, the sun, which is spoken of as inferior, is 
three hundred and fifty- four thousand nine hundred and thirty- 
six times larger ; and the stars, that seeuQ like diamond points 
above us, are, many of them, larger than the sun, one being 
one billion eight hundred million miles in diameter. Yet, 



172 HALF HOUR STOlUEf!. 

such a bulk, when compared to the universe, is less thj.n a 
monad. 

A "monad" is an indivisible atom. It is as incomprehensi- 
ble as the mysteries of creation, or the duration of eternity. 

Tripoli, or rotten-stone, an article used in every family, 
and tons of which are daily employed in manufactories, is 
composed entirely of animalcuke. In each cubic inch there 
are forty-one billion, that is, forty-one million-million of these 
living, breathing creatures, each of whom has organs of sight, 
hearing and digestion. Think, if you can, of the internal 
organization of beings a million of whom could rest on the 
point of a cambric needle ! 

But there are more minute forms of creation than even 
those. Deposit a grain, the four hundred and eightieth part 
of an ounce of musk, in any place, and, for twenty years, it 
will throw oflf exhalations of fragrance, without causing any 
perceptible decrease of weight. The fragrance that for so 
many years goes forth from that minute portion of matter is 
composed of particles of musk. How small must each of 
those particles be, that follow each other in ceaseless succes- 
sion for twenty years, without lessening, to any perceptible 
degree, the weight of the deposit ! And yet we have not 
reached the monad. A celebrated author * made a compu- 
tation which led to the conclusion that six billion as many 
atoms of light flow from a candle in owe second as there 
are grains of sand in the whole earth, supposing each cubic 
inch to contain one million ! 

Here we imist stop. Further advances are impossible, 
yet our end is not attained ; we have not yet reached the 
monad, for the animalculre and the less sentient particles of 
matter, light, are not, for they are divisible. 

The insect can be divided, because it has limbs with which 

• Niewentyt 



THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION. 173 

to move ; and an intelligence higher than man can doubtless 
see emanations from those particles of light. But a monad is 
indivisible ! Think of each cubic inch of this great earth con- 
taining a million grains of sand, and those countless grains 
multiplied by one billion, or a million-million, and that the 
product only shows the number of particles of light that flow 
from a candle in one second of time ! — and not a monad yet ! 
Minds higher than ours can separate each of these particles, 
and yet perhaps they find not the indivisible, but assign over 
to other minds the endless task. 

With such thoughts let us return to our first point, and 
remark that the star tens of billions of miles distant, one bil- 
lion eight hundred million miles in diameter, is but a monad 
when compared with the creations of the vast universe of 
God! 

Here the mind sinks within itself, and gladly relinquishes 
the herculean task of endeavoring to comprehend, for a single 
moment, a fractional part of the stupendous whole. 

Deep below us, high above us, far as the eye of the mind 
can see around us, are the works of our Creator, marshalled 
in. countless hosts. All animated by his presence, all breathed 
upon by his life, inspired by his divinity, fostered by his love, 
supported by his power. 

And in all things there is beauty — sunbeams and rain- 
bows ; fragrant flowers whose color no art can equal. In 
every leaf, every branch, every fibre, jevery stone, there is a 
perfect symmetry, perfect adaptation to the conditions that 
surround it. And thus it is, from the minutest insect undis- 
cernible by human eye, to the planet whose size no figures 
can represent. Each and all the works of God order gov- 
erns, symmetry moulds, and beauty adorns. 

There are all grades of beings, from the monad to the high- 
est intelligences, and man occupies his position in the endless 
chain. Could you hear and see, as seraphs listen and behold, 
15* 



174 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

you wou.d hear cne continuous song of glad praise go up from 
all creation ; you would see all things radiant with smiles, 
reflecting the jcfys of heaven. And why? Because they 
follow nature's leading, and, in doing so, live and move in 
harmony. 

Who can scale the heights above us, or fathom the depths 
below us '? Who can comprehend the magnitude of countless 
worlds that roll in space — the distance that separates the 
nearest orb from our earth, the worlds of being in a drop of 
water, the mighty array of angel forms that fill immensity ? 

Well may we exclaim, " Great and marvellous are thy 
works, Lord of Hosts, and that my soul knoweth right 
well!" 



A VISION OF HEAYEN 

Night had shed its darkness round me ; 

Wearied with the cares of day, 
Rested I. Sleep's soft folds uuund m6, 

And mv spirit fled away. 

As on eagle pinions soaring, 

On I sped from star to star, 
Till heaven's high and glistening portala 

Met my vision from afar. 

Myriad miles I hasted over ; 

Myriad stars I passed by : 
On and on my tireless spirit 

Urged its ceaseless flight on high. 

Planets burned with glorious radiance, 
Lighting up my trackless way ; 

On I sped, till music coming 
From the realms of endless day 

Fell upon my ear, — as music 

Chanted by celestial choirs 
Only can, — and then my spirit 

Longed to grasp their golden lyrea 

Stood I near that portal wondering 
Whether I could enter there : 

I, of earth and sin the subject, 
Child of sorrow and of care ! 

There I stood like one uncalled for, 
Willing thus to hope and wait. 

Till a voice said, " Why not enter? 
Why thus linger at the gate? 



176 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" £jiow me not ? Say whence thou comest 
Here to join our angel band. 

Know me not? Here, take thy welcome — 
Take thine angol-sister's Lund." 

Then I gazed, and, gazing, wondered ; 

For 't was she who long since died, — 
She who in her youth departed, 

Falling early at my side. 

" ti'p," said she, " mid glorious temples . 

Up, wliefO :il! thy loved ones rest ! 
They with joy will sing thy welcome 

To the mansions of the blest. 

" Mansions where no sin can enter, 
Home where all do rest in petvce ; 

Where the tried and faithful spirit 
From its trials finds release ; 

" Golden courts, where watchful cherubs 

Tune theii- harps to holy praise ; 

Temples in which countless myriads 

Antlxems of thankegiving raise." 

I those shining portals entered, 
Guided by that white-robed one, 

When a glorious light shone round me 
Brighter than the noonday sun ! 

Friends I met whom death had severed 
From companionship below ; 

All were there — and in each feature 
Immortality did glow. 

I would touch their golden lyres, 
When upon my ear there broke 

Louder music at that moment 

I from my glad vision woke. 

All was silent ; scarce a zephyr 
Moved the balmy air of night ; 



SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE, 177 

And the moon, ii meekness shining, , 
Shed around its hallowed liffht. 



TIIEllE^S HOPE FOR THEE YET. 

What though from life's bounties thou mayest have iallen? 

What though thy sun in dark clouds may have set ? 
There is a bright star that illumes the horizon, 

Telling thee truly, " There 's hope for thee yet." 

This earth may look dull, old friends may forsake thee ; 

Sorrows that never before thou hast met 
May roll o'er thy head ; yet that bright star before thee 

Shines to remind thee " there 's hope for thee yet." 

'T is but folly to mourn, though fortune disdain thee, 
Though never so darkly thy sun may have set ; 

'T is wisdom to gaze at the bright star before thee, 
And shout, as you gaze, " There 's hope for me yet." 



SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A 
WIFE. 

It cannot be that thou art dead ; that now 
I watch beside thy grave, and with my tears 
Nourish the flowers that blossom over thee ; 
I cannot tliiuk that thou art dead and gone ; 
That naught remains to me of what thou wert, 
Save that which lieth here, — dust unto dust. 

When the bright sun arises, and its rays 

Pass noiseless through my chamber, then methinks 



178 HALT HOUR STORIES. 

That thou art with me still ; that I can see 
Thy flowing hair ; and thy bright glancing eye 
Beams on me with a look none other can. 
And when at noon life's busy tumult makes 
My senses reel, and I almost despair, 
Thou comest to me and I 'm cheered again ; 
Thine own bright smile illuminates my way, 
And one by one the gathered clouds depart, 
Till not a shadow lies upon my path. 

Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treads 

Upon the steps that morn and noon have trod ; 

And, as our children gather round my knee. 

And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught, 

I cannot but believe that thou art near. 

But when they speak of " mother," when tliey say 

*' 'T is a long time since she hath left our side," 

And when they ask, in their soft infant tones. 

When they again shall meet thee, — then I feel 

A sudden sadness o'er my spirit come : 

And when sleep holds them in its silken bands 

I wander here, to this fair spot they call 

Thy grave (as though this feeble earth could hold 

Thee in its cold embrace) , and weep and sigh ; 

Yet, trusting, look above to yon bright sphere, 

And feel thou a/t not dead, but living there. 

It is not thou that fills this spot of earth. 
It Is not thou o'er whom these branches wave, 
These blooming roses only mark the spot 
"Where but remaineth that thou couldst not wear 
Amid immortal scenes. 

Thou livest yet ! 
Thy feet do tread the golden courts of heaven ; 
Thy hands have touched the harps that angels use ; 
Thy eyes have seen the glory of our Lord ; 
Thy ears have listened to that song of praise 
Whijh angels utter, and which God accepts. 



THE FUaiTIVES. 179 



THE FUGITIVES. 

Thet had escaped the galling chain and fetters, 

Had gained the freedom which they long had sought, 
And lived like men — in righteous deeds abettors, 

Loving the truth wliich God to them had taught 
Some at the plough had labored late and early ; 

And some ascended Learning's glorious mount ; 
And some in Art had brought forth treasures pearly, 

Which future history might with joy i-ecount 
As gems wrought out by hands which God made free, 
But man had sworn should chained and fettered be. 

They lived in peace, in quietness, and aided 

In deeds of charity — in acts of love ; 
Nor cared though evil men their works upbraided. 

While conscience wliispered of rewards above. 
And they had wives to love, children who waited 

At eve to hear the father's homeward tread. 
And clasped the hand, — or else, with joy elated, 

Sounding his coming, to their mother sped. 
Thus days and years passed by, and hope was bright, 
Nor dreamed they of a dark and gloomy night. 

Men came empowered, with handcuffs and with warrants, 

And, entering homos, tore from their warm i 
Husbands and fathers, and in copious torrents 

Poured forth invective on our northern race, 
And done all " lawfully," because 't was voted 

By certain men, who, when they had the might, 
Fostered plans on which their passions doted. 

Despite of reason and God's law of right ; 
And, bartering liberties, the truth dissembled. 
While Freedom's votaries yielded as they trembled. 

Shall we look on and bear the insult given ? 

O, worse than " insult " is it to be chained, 
To have the fetters on thy free limbs riven. 

When ojice the prize of Freedom has been gained. 



180 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

No ! by the granite pointing high above us, 
By Concord, Lexington, and Faneuil Hall, 

By all these sacred spots, by those who love us, 
We pledge to-day our hate of Slavery's thrall ; 

And give to man, whoever he may be. 

The power we have to make and keep him free. 



THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE. 

What shouts shall rise when earth shall hold 

Its universal jubilee ! 
When man no more is bought and sold. 

And one and all henceforth are free ! 
Then songs they '11 sing, 
That loud shall ring 
From rock to rock, from shore to shore. 

" Hurra ! " they '11 shout, " we 're free, we 're free. 

From land to land, from sea to sea. 
And chains and fetters bind no more ! " 

Let every freeman strive to bring 

The universal jubilee ; 
All hail the day when earth shall ring 
With shouts of joy, and men are free ! 

Then each glad voice 

Shall loud rejoice, 
And chains shall fall from every hand. 

Whilst myriad tongues shall loudly tell 

The grateful joy of hearts that swell. 
Where Freedom reigns o'er sea and land. 



THE WIDOW'S STORY. 

Tapville was situated on the borders of one of the most 
beautiful rivers that grace and refresh the soil of New Eng- 
land. It was once a quiet place, once as perfect in its char- 
acter as any of its sisterhood. A moral atmosphere pervaded 
it, and the glorious and divine principle of doing unto others 
as thej would have others do unto them governed its inhab- 
itants ; and, therefore, it was not strange that its farmers 
and storekeepers kept good the proverbial honesty and hos- 
pitality of their progenitors. Tradition said (but written 
history was silent) that a few of those who landed at Plym- 
outh Rock separated from the main body, and took up 
their abode further in the interior; and that, from these 
" few," a flourishing company arose, and the place they in- 
habited was " Springvale." But time and circumstances, 
having much to do with the concerns of earth's inhabitants, 
changed the character as well as the name of this ancient 
town, and " Springvale " became " Tapville." 

One evening, in the year one thousand eight hundred and 
I don't remember what, after a somewhat fatiguing ride on 
horseback all day, my heart was cheered on coming in view 
of the town. I had never visited Tapville, but, from accounts 
I had heard, judged it to be a sort of Pandemonium — a 
juvenile Bedlam. As I entered, troops of children greeted 
me with shouts, and my horse with stones. Despite of my 
treatment, I could not but compare their appearance, to say 
nothing of their conduct, with those I had last seen in another 
town, thirty miles distant. These were att:Ired in rags, those 
16 



182 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

in good clothing ; these with unwashed faces, uncombed hair, 
and beai-ing every mark of neglect, — those bright and 
smiling, happy themselves, and making all around them so. 

I did not much fancy my reception, I assure you. My 
horse seemed wondering at the cause of it, for he suddenly 
halted, then turned slowly about, and began to canter away 
with a speed that I thought quite imj)Ossible foi' a beast after 
a long day's work. I reined him in, turned about, and 
entered the town by a small and not much frequented 
pathway. 

There was a large building at my left, with a huge sign over 
its principal door, from which I learned that ' ' Good Enter- 
tainment for Man and Beast " might be had within. Appear- 
ances, however, indicated that a beast must be a very bad 
beast who would accept its "entertainment." 

A fat man, wearing a green jacket on his back, an old 
torn and tattered straw hat on his head, and both hands in 
his pockets, stood lazily at the door ; before which half a 
score of dirty children were playing with marbles, and a 
short distance from which a couple of children were fighting, 
upon whose pugilistic exercises a woman, with a child in her 
arms and a pipe in her mouth, was gazing with intense 
interest. 

The general appearance of the town was far from pleasing. 
At nearly every window, hats, or shingles, or bundles of 
rags, took the place of glass, and the doors, instead of being 
hung on hinges, were " sei np," liable to be set doion by 
the first gust of wind. 

Near one miserable shantee, poor, very poor apology for 
a dwelling-house, one man was endeavoring to get another 
into the house ; at least, so I thought ; but both were so 
much intoxicated that I could not tell, for my life, which 
the latter was. At one moment, the man with the blue coat 
with the tails cut ofi" seemed to be helping the man without 



THE widow's story. 183 

a coat ; the next moment, I thought the coatless man was 
trying to help the other. The fact was, hoth needed help, 
which neither could give ; so they remained " in a fix.'' 

NoAv and then, a bare-footed little child would run across 
my path, and hurry out of sight, as if fearful of being seen 
where so much that was neither of heaven nor of earth was 
discern ible 

In striking contrast with the want and desolation around, 
stood a beautiful mansion. Around it was a garden of choice 
flowers, and the vine, with its rich clusters of luscious grapes, 
shaded the path to the entrance of the house. 

I continued on. Far up a shaded avenue I perceived a 
small, yet neat cottage, so different in general appearance 
from those around it, that I turned my way thither, in hopes 
of resting in quiet, and, if possible, of learning something 
relative to the town. I alighted, knocked, and soon an old 
lady requested me to enter, saying that Tommy would see 
that my horse was cared for. It was a small room that I 
entered ; everything was as neat and clean as a New Year's 
gift, and there was so much of New England about it, that 
I felt at home. Near an open window, in an easy-chair, sat 
a young lady of decidedly prepossessing appearance, but evi- 
dently wasting beneath that scourge of eastern towns and 
cities — consumption. There was a hue upon her cheek 
that was in beautiful contrast with the pure white of her 
high forehead, and the dark, penetrating eye that flashed 
with the deep thoughts of her soul. 

The old lady was one of those good-natured, motherly 
women, whom you will find at the firesides of New England 
homes, generous to a fault ; and whom you cannot but love, 
for the interest she takes in you, and the solicitude she man- 
ifests for your welfare. 

A repast was soon at hand, and when it was over the 
lady said, 



1S4 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



You are from Boston, then 7 " 

"Yes," I replietl; "and, having heard considerable re- 
specting this place, have come hither to satisfy myself whether 
or not any good would be likely to result from a temperance 
lecture here." 

'"Temperance lecture!'" she exclaimed, as she grasped 
my hand. "Do, sir, for Heavei-'s sake, do something, do 
anything you possibly can, to stay the ravages of the rum 
fiend in this place ! "" 

She would have said more, but she could not. The foim- 
tains of her heait seemed breaking, and a flood of tears 
flowed from her eyes. The daughter buried her face in her 
hands, and the sighs that arose from both mother and child 
told me that something had been said that deeply affected 
them. 

Tommy at this moment came in. happy and joyous : but, 
as soon as he saw his mother and sister weeping, his whole 
appearance changed. He approached his mother, and. look- 
ing up in her fiice, said, •• Don't cry. mother. Jenny will 
be better soon, and Tommy will work and make you and her 
happy. Don't cry, mother ! "' 

The child's simple entreaty brought more copiously the 
tears to the mourner's eyes, and some time elapsed before 
they became in the least degree comforted. 

" You will excuse me, sir," said she, " I know you will, 
for my grief ; but, 0, if temperance had been here ten years 
ago, we should have been so happy ! " 

•• Yes,'' said the boy ; '• then lather would not have tiled 
a drunkaixi ! '' 

The sm-mises I had entertained as to the cause of this 
sorrow were now confii med ; and, at my request, she told me 
her s{bry, with a hope that it might prove a warning to 
othere. 

" You must know, sir. that when we came here to live 



1 



THE widow's 8T0RY. 185 

we were just married. Alfred, mj husband, was a good rcie- 
chanic, industrious, frugal and kind-hearted. He had by his 
labor and economy accumulated a small amount, enough to 
purchase an estate consisting of a house, shop and farm. He 
had many and good customei-s, and our prospects were very 
fair. "We attended church regularly, for we thought that, 
after enjoying the bounties of a beneficent Ruler all of six 
days, it was our duty, as well as privilege, to devote the 
seventh to His praise. 

"Years passed by, when one morning Jenny, who was then 
about seven years, old, came running in, and told me that a 
new store had been opened ; tliat the man had nothing but 
two or three little kegs, and a few bottles and tumblers. I 
went out, and found it as she had stated. There was the man ; 
there was his store ; there were his kegs, bottles and tumblers. 

" The next day some changes were made : a few signs were 
seen, and the quiet villagei*s gazed in wonder, if not admira- 
tion, at the inscriptions. 'Rum,' 'Gin,' 'Brandies,' 'Wines 
and Cigars.' Old men shook their heads, and looked wise. 
Old women peered from beneath their specs, and gave vent 
to many predictions. Children asked what the words meant. 

" That night I talked with my husband about it. He 
thought that there was no danger ; that social enjoyment 
would harm no one ; and seemed astonished, to use his own 
words, ' that such a sensible woman as I was should express 
any anxiety about the matter." That night, to me, was a 
long and sad one. I feared the result of the too much de- 
pendence on self which he seemai to cherish. 

'• The rumseller soon gathered a number of townsmen 
about him. His establishment became a place of frequent 
resort by many, and soon we had quarrelling neighboi-s, and 
disturbances at night. Boys became dishonest, and thus the 
fruits of the iniquitous traffic became visible. 

" I noticed that Alfred was not as punctual in his return 
16* 



186 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

as formerly ; and my fears that he visited this pest-house of 
the town were soon confirmed I hinted to him my sus- 
picions. He was frank, and freely admitted that he visited 
the bar-room ; said he had become acquainted with a few 
choice spirits, trua friends, who had sworn eternal friendship. 
' Danger,' said he. 'there is none ! If I thought I endan. 
gered your happiness, I would not visit it again.' I recol- 
lect the moment. He looked me steadily in the face, and, 
as he did so, a tear escaped my eye. He, smiling, wdped it 
away, promised that when he saw evil he would avoid it, and 
left me alone to my reflections. 

" But I will be brief. I need not tell you how, step by 
step, he descended that ladder whose end rested in the grave. 
I need not tell you how I warned him of danger ; how I en- 
treated him to avoid it ; how I watched him in sickness, and 
bathed his fevered brow ; how my heart was gladdened when 
I saw his health returning, and heard his solemn promise to 
reform. 

" Nor need I tell you how he was again led astray, and 
his hand encircled that cup which he had once dashed aside. 
0, sir, he was a good man; and, in his sober moments, he 
would weep like a child, as he thought of his situation ! He 
would come to me and pour out his soul in gratitude for my 
kindness ; and would beg my forgiveness in the tenderest 
manner, till his heart became too full for utterance, and his 
repentance found vent in his tears. 

" What could I do but forgive him, as I did a hundred 
times ! 

" Disheartened, I became sick. I was not expected to 
survive ; and Jenny, poor child, watched by my side, and 
contracted an illness, from which, I fear, she will not be 
freed till the God she loves calls her home to himself 

' ' When I recovered, Alfi-ed remained for some time sober 
and happy. But he fell ! Yes, sir ; but God knows he 



THE widow's story. 187 

tried to stand, and would have done so had not the (jwner of 
that gi-oggery, by foul stratagem, hurled him to the ground. 
I wBnt, my daughter went, frierxds went, to ask the de- 
stroyer of our happiness to desist ; but he turned us away 
with an oath and a laugh, saying, ' he would sell to all who 
wanted.' 

" Frequent exposure brought disease ; disease brought 
death, and my husband died. 

" All our property was sold to meet the demands of merci- 
less creditors, the principal one of whom was this very rum- 
seller who turned me from his doors. A friend furnished 
us with the cottage in which we have since lived. Many 
kind-hearted friends have gathered around us, and we have 
been happy, save when the recollections of the past rise 
before us. Others, beside myself, have had cause to mourn ; 
and our town, once inhabited by happy, quiet and contented 
families, has become noted as a seat of iniquity. 

" He who has caused this change is now the wealthiest 
man in town. You might have seen his stately palace as 
you rode up, environed with fruits and flowers. He lives 
there ; but, within the shade of that mansion, are the wretched 
hovels of those upon whose ruin he sits enthroned. He has 
roses and fruits at his door, but they have been watered by 
widows' tears ; and the winds that reach his home amid 
rich vines and laden trees may bear to his ears the orphan's 
cry, from whose mouth he has taken the daily bread." 

When the old lady had finished her narrative, she could 
restrain her tears no longer, and they burst forth as freely 
as at first. 

I inquired whether there were any beside herself who 
would become interested in a temperance movement. She 
replied that there were many, but they wished some one to 
Btart it. 

I had left a gentleman at the town I last came from, who 



188 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

was an ejoquent advocate; and my first act, after listening to 
the -widow's narrative, was to write a note, and send it in all 
possible haste to him. 

The next day he came ; and, if you could have seen the 
joy of that family as I told them that we had announced a 
meeting, you would have some faint idea of the happiness 
which the temperance reform has produced. 

From Avhat I had learned, I expected that we should meet 
with some opposition from the wealthy individual before al- 
luded to, or from his agents, who were so blinded to their 
own interests that they could not be easily induced to move 
for their own good. 

The evening came, and the room we had engaged was well 
filled. My friend arose, when a stone, hurled at him from 
without, missed its aim, and struck a lamp at his side, 
dashing it into a hundred fragments. Little disconcerted at 
this, he began his address ; and, in a short time, gained the 
attention of the audience in so perfect a manner, that they 
•heeded not the attempts of a noisy crowd without to disturb 
them. 

He continued on. Men leaned forward to catch his words, 
and some arose and stood as motionless as statues, with eyes 
fixed intently on the speaker. Women wept ; some in sor- 
r6w for the past, others in joy for the future. A deep feel- 
ing pervaded all. The disturbance without ceased, and one 
by one the disturbers came to the door ; one by one they 
entered, and began to feel the truths which the speakers 
uttered. 

The only interruption was made by an aged man, who 
bowed his silvery head, and, in trembling accents, moaned 
out, "My son, my son!" These words, uttered at the expi- 
ration of every few minutes, increased the solemnity of the 
occasion, and added power to the lecturer's remarks, for all 



THE widow's story. 189 

knew the story of his son, and all knew that he was carried 
home dead from the groggerj. 

When, at the end of the lecture, it was asked who would 
sign the pledge, the whole assemhlj started to respond to the 
call, and each one that night became pledged to total absti- 
nence. 

The next day a great excitement existed relative to the 
groggeries in town ; a meeting was called, and a committee 
appointed to act in a manner they thought best calculated to 
promote the interests of the people at large. 

This committee determined to present the facts to the 
keepers of the places in question, and request them to 
renounce the traffic. 

The facts were presented. They saw that their customers 
had all left them,^ and why should they continue 7 It would 
be a losing business. 

The effect of the moral suasion had been powerful ; it la- 
bored with the very soul of the traffic, with those who put 
the pence in the dealers' coffers. It was more powerful than 
all laws that could have been enacted. Forbidding them to 
sell while customers crowded their doors would have had no 
effect, unless to create riot ; inducing their customers to leave 
them soon induced them to leave the business, for where 
there are none to buy there will be none to sell. 

In view of all this, the rumsellers of Tajpville gave up ; 
and, strange to say, joined with the people that night in their 
rejoicing, and made a bonfire of their stock in trade. 

By the light of that fire my friend and I left the lown ; 
and when far away we could see its glare, and hear the shouts 
of a disenthralled people. 

After a few months' travel in the south and west, I revis- 
ited Tapville, or rather the place where it once stood ; but 
no Tapville was there. The town had regained its former 4*8* 
sobriety and quiet, and became " Springvale." 



190 HALF HOUR STOBIES. 

I called at the widow's cottage ; Tommy ran out to meet 
me, and I received a welcome I shall never forget. But 
Jennj was no more ; with her last breath she had blessed the 
temperance cause, and then her pure spirit winged its way 
to that home where sorrows never come, and where the 
troubles of earth are forgotten amid the joys of heaven. 



THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN. 

1 WAS cold, bleak winter, on a rock-bound coast, 

"When bsiuds of exiles trod its frozen shore. 
Who then stood forth to greet the coming host 
And shelter freely give when storms did pour ? 
Old Samoset — peace to his memory still ! — 
He bade them welcome, welcome, with good will. 

Then was the red man's nation broad and strong — 

O'er field and forest he held firm control ; 
Then power was his to stay the coming throng, 
And back the -svave of usurpation roll. 

He might have crushed them on old Plymouth's rock, 
And freedom to this day have felt the shock. 

Not so he willed it ; he would have them sit 

In peace and amity around his door ; 
The pipe of peace in friendship would have lit. 

And, as its white cloud up towards heaven did soar, 
Learned that like it the spirits pure and white 
Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light. 

But what return did they profusely give 

"Who were dependent on the red man's com ? 
Not even to them the privilege to live. 

But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn ! 

Hunted like wild beasts tlirough the forests' track ; 
For food and welcome such they gave him back. 



132 HALF HOUR STORIES, 

Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul, 

Then grasped with firmness every one his bow ; 
No mortal power his purpose could control, 
Till he had seen the traitors lying low. 

Revenge ! revenge ! was sounded far and wide 
O'er every field and every river's tide. 

The little child that scarce could lisp a word 

Was tiiught to hate the white man ; maidens fair 
Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard 
Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair ; 
Old men urged on the young, and young men fled 
Swift 10 increase the armies of the dead. 

And thus the war began, — the fearful war 

That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood ; 
The white and red man knew no other law 
Than that which wrote its every act in blood. 
Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight. 
And blazing homes made terrible the night. 

The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz. 

The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death ; 
Despair in him who saw the last of bis, 

And heard "good-by " from children's dying breath ; 
The last sad look of prisoners borne away. 
And groan of torture, marked the night and day. 

With arms more skilful — not with hearts more true, 

Or souls more brave to battle for the right — 
The white the unjust warfare did pursue. 

Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight 
From homes he loved, from altars he revered. 
And left, forever, scenes to him endeared. 

O, what an hour for those brave people that ! 

Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be ; 
Young men and maidens who had often sat 
In love and peace beneath the forest tree ; 

Parents who 'd planted flowers, and with warm team 
Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years ! 



THE WIDOW S STORY. 

From every tree a voice did seem to start, 

And every shrub that could a sliadow cast 
Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part, 
So closely twined was each one witli the pa.st. 
0, was it strange they fought with furious zeal ? 
Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel. 

And thus they went, — a concourse of wronged men, — 

Not with a speedy flight ; each incli they gave, 
Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken, 
Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave ; 
And white men paid the price — and now tliey hold 
This broad, broad land for cost more dear .than gold. 

And yet 'tis not enough ; the cry for more 

Ilath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave 
Now blends with it t!ie thunder of its roar^ 
And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave 
Of the last Indian, — last of that bravo band 
Who once held sway o'er all this ftirtile land. 

Methinks to-day I see him stand alone. 

Drawing liis blanket close around his form ; 
He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan 
Rise from tlie fields of strife ; and now tlie storm 
That hath swept all before it, age on age. 
On him, the lust, seeks to pour forth its rage. 

Raising his hand appealing to the sun. 

He swears, by all he hath or now could crave 
That wheti his life is closed, his life-race run, 
A white man ne'er shall stand above his grave. 
Shall he, the last of a once noble race, 
Consign himself to such a dire disgrace ? 

Never ! let rock to rock the word resound ; 
Never ! bear witness all ye gods to-day ; 
Never ! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound, 
• Write " Never " on your waves, and bear away ; 
Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused. 
With such reproach he ne'er shall be accused. 

17 



193 



194 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

The red man's brethren, tell him where are they ; 

The red man's homos and altars, what their fate? 
Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day. 
Forget with his lawt Ijrcath to whisper hate? 
Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too, 
Such as to fiendish cruelty is due. 

He cannot bear the white man's presence now. 

Or bear to hear his name or see his works ; 
He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow, 
That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks. 
Has he a cause for this ? — review the past, 
And see those acts which prompt hate to the last. 

Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast 

Of Freedom's favoi-s, ye whose wealth doth lie 
From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast ! 
Let not the race you have supplanted die ; 
Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands, 
Without a just requital at your hands. 

0, give them homes wliieh they can call their own, 
Let Knowledge light its torcli and lead the way ; 
And meek Religion, from the eternal throne, 
Be there to uslier in a better day ; 

Then sliall the past be blotted from life's scroll 
And all the good ye may do crown the whole. 



SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL 

0, THATtiome spirit form would come, 
From the fair realms of heaven above, 

And take my outstretched hand in hers, 
To bathe mo in angelic love ! 

O that these longing, peering, eyes, 

. Might pierce the sliadowy curtain's fold, 



A SONG FROM THE ABSENT. 195 

And see in radiant robes arrayed, 

Tlie friends whose memory I do hold 
Close, close within my soul's deep cell ! 
O, that were well ! O, that were well ! 

I 've often thought, at midnight's hour, 

That round my couch I could discern 
A shadowy being, from whose eye 

I could not, ah ! I would not turn. 
It seemed so sisterly to me, 

So radiant with looks of love, 
That ever since I 'vc strove to be 

More like the angel hosts above. 
The hopes, the joys were like a spell. 
And it was well ! Yes, it was well ! 

And every hour of day and night 

I feel an influence o'er me steal, 
So soothing, pure, so holy, bright, 

I would each human heart could feel 
A fraction of the miglity tide 

Of living joy it sends along. 
Then why should I complain, and ask 

Why none of heaven's angelic throng 
Come to this earth with me to dwell, 
For all ia well, — all, all is well ! 



A SONG FROM THE ABSENT 

TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME. 

AwAT from Jiomc, how slow the hours 

Pass wearily along ! 
I feel alone, though many forms 

Around my pathway throng. 



196 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

There 's none that look on me in love, 

Wherever I do roam ; 
I 'm longing for thy gentle smile, 

My dearest one, at home. 

I walk around ; strange things I see, 

Much that is fair to view ; 
Man's art and Nature's handiwork. 

And all to me is new. 
But, ah ! I feel my joy were more, 

If, while 'mid these 1 roam. 
It could be shared with thee I love, 

My dearest one, at home. 

Blow, blow ye winds, and bear me on 

My long and arduous way ! 
Move on, slow hours, more swiftly move, 

And bring to life the day 
When, journey done, and absence o'er, 

No more I distant roam ; 
When I again shall be with thee, 

My dearest one, at home. 



TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN. 

THE HOUR OF PARTING. 

Friends who here have met to-day, 
Let us sing our parting lay. 
Ere wo hence do pass away. 

Ere the sun doth set. 
As we 've trod this grassy earth. 
Friendships new have had their birth. 
And this day of festive mirth 

We shall ne'er forget. 



THE SUMMER 6H0WER. 197 

Rock, and hill, and shading tree, 
Streamlet dancing to the sea, 
Gladly though we 'd stay with thee, 

We must leave you all ; 
On the tree and on the flower 
Comes the evening's twilight hour, 
And upon each forest bower 

Evening's shadows fall. 

Part we now, but through our life, 
Hush of peace or jar of strife, 
Memory will still be rife 

With glad thoughts of thee ; 
Wheresoe'er our feet may stray, 
Memory will retain this day ; 
Fare thee well — we haste away, 

Farewell rock and tree ! 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 

Up from the lake a mist ascends', 
And forms a sea of cloud above, 
That hangs o'er eartli as if in love 

With its green vales ; then quick it sends 
Its blessings down in cooling rain. 
On hill and valley, rock and plain. 

Nature, delighted with the shower. 

Sends up the fragrance of each flower ; 
Birds carol forth their cheeriest lays, 
The green leaves rustle forth their praise. 

Soon, one by one, the clouds depart. 
And a bright rainbow spans the sky. 

That seems but the reflective part 
Of all below, fixed there on high. 

17* 



i UTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON. 

Early one bright summer morning, as I was perambulat- 
ing beneath those noble trees that stand the bodj-guard of 
one of the most beautiful places of -which city life can boast, 
— Boston Common, — I encountered a man who attracted 
my special attention bj his apparent carelessness of action, 
and humble bearing. He looked dejected likewise, and I 
seated myself on the stone seat beside him. 

He took me by the sleeve of my coat, and whispered in 
my ear, " I 'm an Automaton, sir." A few more words 
passed between us, after which, at my request, he gave me a 
sketch of his life, which I propose to give you in language 
as nearly his own as possible. 

"I was born. I came into this world without any consent 
of my own, sir, and as soon as I breathed the atmosphere of 
this mundane state I was bandaged and pinned, and felt very 
much as a mummy might be supposed to feel. I was then 
tossed from Matilda to Jerusha, and from Jerusha to Jane, 
and from Jane to others and others. I tried to laugh, but 
found I could n't ; so I tried to cry, and succeeded most ad- 
mirably in my eftbrt. 

" 'He 's sick," said my aunt ; and my aunt called a 
doctor who, wise man, called for a slip of paper and an 
errand-boy. 

" The next I knew, my head was being held by my aunt, 
anc the doctor was pouring down my throat, which he dis- 
tended with the handle of a spoon, a bitter potion ; pouring 
it down without any consent of my own, sir. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON. 199 

'^' Whether I got better or worse I don't know ; but I slept 
for a time, and had a strange dream, of a strange existence, 
upon which I seemed to have suddenly entered. 

"The subsequent year was one in which I figured not 
largely, but considerably. I made a noise in the world, and 
was flattered so much by my mother's acquaintances that my 
nose has been what is vulgarly called '^a pug,' ever since. 
I did n't have my own way at all, except when I screamed. 
In that I was not an Automaton. I was myself in that par • 
ticular ; and the more restraint they put upon me, the more 
freedom I bad. I cried independently of all my aunts and 
cousins. They could n't dictate me in that. 

" Years passed on, and I grew older, as a matter of course. 
I grew without any consent of my own, sir, and found my- 
self in jacket and trousers ditto. I was sent to school, and 
was told to study Greek and Latin, and Algebra, and Pneu- 
matics, and Hydrostatics, and a dozen or twenty other things, 
the very names of which I have forgotten, but which I well 
remember bothered me considerably in ihose days. I had ' 
much rather have studied the laws of my own being ; much 
rather have examined and become acquainted with the archi 
tecture of my own bodily frame ; much rather have studied 
something more intimately connected with the realities of my 
own existence ; but they made me study what was repulsive to 
my own mind, and speak big words which I did n't under- 
stand, and which my teacher could n't explain without the 
aid of a dictionary. 

" My parents labored under the strange delusion that I was 
a wonderful child. I don't know why, unless it was because 
I did n't know anything of life, and I could repeat a little 
Latin, stumble through a sentence of Greek, and, after having 
solved a problem seventy-six thousand times to show my 
wonderful precociousness, could do it again when called 
upon. Perhaps I 'm extravagant. It was n't more than half 



200 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

that number of times. At anj rate, sir, I was thought a 
prodigy — a most astonishing intellectual — I don't know 
what, — call it mushroom, — because what I had done so 
many times I could do again. 

" I recollect there was a little youngster of my acquaint- 
ance, — a charming, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy, — who told 
me, one day, that he did n't care for the dead languages, he 
had rather know the live ones. I thought so too, and Ave 
talked a long time, down behind old Turner's barn, about 
what should be and what should n't. But I had to go home. 
I had to be pulled about, this arm with this wire, and that 
foot with that wire. I had to do this and that, to study 
this and study that, because — why, because I was an Au- 
tomaton, sir, I was born such. 'T was in my bones to be 
an Automaton. 

"My school-days passed, and the minister told my father 
that if he was him he 'd send me to co.llege. He — my father — 
did n't sleep any, that night. He and my mother kept 
awake till daylight prognosticating my career, and fixing 
upon a day when I should go to Cambridge. 

" That day came. I remember it was a cloudy day. There 
was a dull shadow over everything. Yes, even over my 
heart. I did n't want to go to college. I knew I had n"t 
been allowed to learn anything I wanted to learn out of it ; 
and I knew I should n't do any better shut up within its old 
dingy, musty, brick walls. I knew I should n't learn any- 
thing there. I had rather be out in the world. I had rather 
be studying in Nature's great college. I had rather gradu- 
ate with a diploma from God, written on my heart, than to 
waste years of life away from the great school of human life ; 
to be told by another how / should go, what / should believe, 
and how / should act, in the great drama of life. But I 
nad to go, sir, — go to college; for I was an Automaton. 

" As I before said the day was cloudy. Mother dressed 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON. 201 

me up. For a week preparations had been making for my 
exit, and finally I went. I was put in a stage where three 
men were smoking. I objected, and intimated that it would 
be much better if those who smoked rode on the outside ; but 
my father said, ' hush,' and told me that smoking was com- 
mon at college, and I must get used to it. When the stage 
stopped to change horses, the men got out, and swore, and 
drank brandy ; and I asked whether such things were com- 
mon at college, and whether I had got to get used to them 
too. But I could n't get any answer. 

" The wind blew cold, but my coat was made so small that 
I could n't button it together. / would have had it loose 
and easy, and warm and comfortable ; but 't was n't fashion- 
able to have it so. Father followed fashion, and I suffered 
from the cold. I had a nice, soft cap, that I used to wear 
to church at home; but father thought that, as I was going to 
the city, I must have a hat ; so he had bought me one, and 
the hard, stiff, ungainly thing was stuck on my head. I 
had as lieves have had a piece of stove-pipe there. It made 
my head ache awfully. 

" If I had n't been what I was, I should have worn a nice, 
.easy pair of shoes ; but I was an Automaton. 1 was n't any- 
body ; so I was made to wear a pair of thin boots, that clung 
to my feet a great deal closer than my skin did, — a great 
deal, sir. 

" Well, we reached Cambridge. It 's a pretty place, you 
know ; and I rather liked it until I arrived at the college 
buildings. Then I did n't like the looks of anything, except 
the green trees, and the grass, and the shady walks. And 1 
wondered where I could learn the most useful knowledge, 
within or without the college. 

" I was ushered in, and my college life began. To narrate 
to you all that made up that life, would be irksome to me 
and tedious to you. I was taught much that I didn't 



202 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

believe then, and don't believe now, and don't think I ever 
shall. I was made to subscribe to certain forms, and with 
my lips to adopt certain views, which my heart all the time 
rebelled against, and reason told me were false. But I said 
I believed, and I did believe after the fashion of the times ; 
for I believe it 's fashionable to believe what you don't know 
anything about, and the more of this belief you have the 
better you are. So I believed what my teachers told me, 
because — why, because I was an Automaton. 

" When I returned home, I found myself, quite unexpect- 
edly, a lion. All the neighbors flocked in to see the young 
man who "d been to college, and in the evening a dozen young 
ladies — marriageable young ladies — called on me. I tried 
to have a pleasant time ; and should have had, if I had n't 
been pulled and pushed, and made a puppet-show of; made 
to go through all my college exercises, to please the pride of 
my immediate relatives, and minister to the wonder-loving 
souls of their friends. But, though I did n't want to do all 
this, though I had much preferred to have sat down and had • 
a quiet talk with one or two, — talked over all that had taken 
place during my absence, our lives and loves, — yet I was 
obliged to, sir. I was an Automaton. 

" One day, — it was but a week after I had returned, — my 
father took me into his room, and said he had something to 
say to me. I knew very well, before he said so, that some- 
thing out of the usual course was to take place ; for, all the 
morning, he had been as serious and reserved as a deacon at 
a funeral, and I had caught him holding sly talks with my 
mother in out-of-the-way places.— I knew something Avas to 
happen. 

"I sat down, and he did. And then he went on to say 
that I had probably had some thoughts of marriage. 1 
merely responded, ' Some.' 

" He then remarked that everv vouns: man should calculato 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON, 203 

to get a wife and settle down ; and that ' old folks ' had had 
experience, and knew a vast deal more about such things 
than young folks did ; and that the latter, when they followed 
the advice of the former, always were well-to-do in the world, 
always were respected. 

" I began to see what he -was driving at. I looked very 
serious at him, and he a great deal more so at me. 

"He talked to me half an hour; it was the longest half-hour 
I had known since I first measured time. He expatiated on' 
the wisdom of old people ; told me I was inexperienced. /, 
who had been to college ! /, who had lived a city life ! / 
was inexperienced ! Bjit I let him go on — I could n't help 
it — you know what I was. 

"He then drew his chair closer mine, loAvered the tone of 
his voice, and said, 

" ' I 've picked out a wife for you. It 's Squire Parsons' 
daughter, Susan Jane Maria. She '11 be an excellent wife to 
you, and mother to your children.' 

"If I had been anything else than what I was, I should 
have sprang up and declared my own ability to choose a wife 
for me and ' a mother for my children : ' but I did n't do 
any such thing. I nodded a calm assent to all he said ; for 
you know, sir, I was an Automaton. 

" I was to go with my father, that night, and see Susan, — 
she that was to be my Susan, — 0, no, not so ; / was to be 
her Jacob. So, when tea was over, and I had been ' fixed 
up,' — I was fixed, I tell you, — father led the way over 
Iligginses' rough pasture. / should have gone round, in the 
road, where it was decent walking, if I had been anybody j 
but I wasn't any one ; I was a — well, you know what. I 
got one of my boots full of water, and father fell down and 
bruised his nose ; but I took off my boot and poured the 
water out, and he put a piece of court-plaster on his nose, — 



204 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

a great black piece, — and we did n't look as bad as we might, 
80 he said ; and so I said, .' of course.' 

" Susan was at home, seated in the middle of a great room, 
as if on exhibition ; and perhaps she was, — I thought so. I 
had seen Susan before, and always disliked her. There was 
nothing in her personal appearance, or her mind, that pleased 
me. I never met her without marking her future life as 
that of an old maid. But she was to be my wife ; father 
said so, mother shouted amen ; and I was to love- her, and so 
I said I did, ' of course.' 

" It seemed to me that she knew all about what I came for; 
for she put out her little slim hand^ that never made a loaf 
of bread nor held a needle, but had oidy fingered the leaves 
of Greek and Latin Lexicons, and volumes of Zoology and 
Ornithology, and thjummed piano-keys, — all very well in 
their place (don't think I depreciate them), but very bad 
when their {)lace is so large that there 's no room for anything 
else, — very bad, sir. 

"As she took my hand she attempted to kiss me ; but, being 
rather shy, I dodged when I saw her lips a-coming, and they 
went plump on to father's nose, and exploded on his piece of 
court-plaster. 

'' It was all fixed that night, and I was to be married one 
week from the ensuing Sunday. 

" We went home. I received a smile from those who were 
so considerate as to hunt me up a wife. 

" If you 'd seen the Greentoton Gazette a fortnight after, 
and had looked at the list of marriages, you might have read, 
' Married : In this town, by Rev. Ebenezer Pilgrade, Mr. 
Jaeob Jenkins, Jr. (recently from college), to Susan Jane 
Maria Parsons, estimable daughter of Nehemiah Q. Parsons ; 
all of this place.' 

" We lived at home. My wife soon found out what I was, 
found out that I was an Automaton, and she pulled the wires 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON. 205 

and put me in motion, in any way she wished. I opened an 
oflfice, put out a sign, and for a time practised law and physic, 
and when the minister was sick took his place and preached. 
I preached just what they wanted me to. I felt more like 
an Automaton than ever, stuck up in a high box, talking just 
what had been talked a thousand times from the same place. 
It would n't do, I was told, to have any ideas of ray own ; 
and, if had them, I must n"t speak them. So my parish and 
me got along pretty well. 

" Of course I had joined the church. I was told that I 
must, and so I did ; but I won't tell you what my thoughts 
were in regard to what I was told to believe, for that 's deli- 
cate ground. I ion't know what your religion is, sir, and I 
might offend you, and I would n't do so for the world. You 
see I am an Automaton yet. I '11 do just as you want me to. 
I hate to be so ; but, somehow or other, I can't be otherwise. 
It 's my nature. 

"You think I 'm prosy. I won't say much more, for I see 
you take out your watch as though you wished I 'd stop, 
that you might go ; so I '11 close with ' finally,' as I do in 
preaching. 

" Well, then, finally, father died, mother died, Susan run 
off, and I 've become almost discouraged. I have three 
children to take care of, but they are good children. They 
do jast precisely as I tell them, and won't do anything with- 
out asking me whether it 's right; and I ask somebody else. 
They have n't got any minds of their own, any more than I 
have. They '11 do just as I tell them. I 've nobody in par- 
ticular now to tell me what I shall do ; so I take everybody's 
• advice, and try to do as everybody wants me to do. I 've 
come to Boston on a visit, and shall go back to-night, if you 
think best. 

" Now I 've given you my autobiography. You can do 
just what you want to with it, — print it, if you like. Peo- 
18 



206 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

pie, perhaps, will laugh at me when they read it; but perhaps 
there are other Automatons besides me." 



He came to a full stop here ; and, as it was getting late, I 
arose, wished him well, bade him good-by, and left. I had 
proceeded but a few steps, when I felt a touch on my shoul- 
der, and, turning, found it was the Automaton, who had come 
to ask me whether I thought he had better go home that 
night. 



TO THE UNKNOWN DONOK OF A BOUaiJET. 

Richest flowers of every hue, 
Lightly fringed with evening dew ; ' 
Sparkling as from Eden's bowers, 
Brightly tinted — beauteous flowers! 
Thee I 've found, and thee I '11 own, 
Though from one to me unknown ; 
Knowing this, tliat one who '11 send 
Such a treasure is my friend. 

Who hath sent thee ? — Flora knows, 
For with care she reared the rose. 
Lo ! here 's a name ! — it is the key 
That will unlock the mystery ; 
This will tell from whom and why 
Thou didst to my presence hie. 
"Wait — the hand 's disguised ! — it wUl 
Remaib to me a mystery still. 

But I 'm a " Yankee," and can " guess " 

Who wove this flowery, fairy tress. 

Yea, more than this, I almost know 

Who tied this pretty silken bow, 

Whose hand arranged them, and whose taste 

Each in such graceful order placed. 

Yet, if unknown thou 'dst rather be. 

Let me wish this wish for thee : 

May'st thou live in joy forever, 
Naught from thee true pleasure sever ; 
From thy heart arise no sigh ; 
May no tear bedew thine eye. 



208 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Joys be many, cares be few, 
Smooth the path thou shalt pursue ; 
And hearen's richest blessings shine 
Ever on both thee and thine. 

Kound thy path may fairest flowers, 
As in amaranthine bowers, 
Bloom and blossom bright and fair, 
Load with sweets the ambient air ! 
Be thy path with roses strewn. 
All thy hours to care unknown ; 
Sorrow cloud thy pathway never, 
Happiness be thine forever. 



TO A SISTER IN HEAYEN, 

Sister, in thy spirit home, 

Knowest thou my path below ? 
Knowest thou the steps I roam, 

And the devious road I go ? 
Many years have past since I 

Bade thee here a sad farewell ; 
Many past since thou didst die, 

Since I heard thy funeral knell. 

Thou didst go when thou wast young ; 

Scarcely hadst thou oped thine eyes 
To the world, and it had flung 

Its bright sunshine from the skies, 
Ere thy Maker called for thee. 

Thou obeyed his high behest ; 
Then I mourned, yet knew thou 'dst be 

Throned on high among the blest. 

Gently thou didst fold thy wing. 
Gently thou didst sink in sleep ; 

Birds their evening songs did sing, 
And the evening shades did creep 



TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN. 209 

Through the casement, one by one, 

Telling of departing day ; 
Then, thou and the glorious sun 

Didst together pass away. 

Yet that sun hath rose since then, 

And hath brought a joy to me ; 
Emblem 't is time will be when 

Once again I shall see thee, — 
See thee in immortal bloom, 

Numbered with the ransomed throng, 
Where no sorrow sheds its gloom 

O'er the heart, or chills the song. 

Spirit sister, throned on high. 

Now methinks I hear thee speak 
From thy liome within the sky, 

In its accents low and meek. 
Thou art saying, " Banish sadness ; 

God is love, — 0, trust hun ever ! 
Heaven is filled with joy and gladness — 

It shall be thy home forever." 

This thou sayest, and thy voice, 

Like to none of earth I 've heard, 
Bids my fainting soul rejoice ; 

Follow God's revealed word, 
Follow that, 't is faithful true ; 

'Mid the trackless maze of this 
It Tvill guide the pilgrim through 
J'o a world of endless bliss. 

Sister, in thy spirit home. 

Thou dost know my path below, 
Thou dost know the steps I roam. 

And the road 1 fain would go. 
If my steps would err from right, 

If I 'd listen to the wrong. 
If I 'd close my eyes to light, 

Mingle with earth's careless throng ; 
18* 



210 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Then wilt thou with power be nigh : 

Power wliicii angel spirits wield, 
That temptation may pass by, 

Be thou near my soul to shield ! 
As I close tliis simple lay, 

As T over it do ))0W, 
Sister, thou art round my way, 

Thou art standing near me now. 



T DREAMED OF TIIEE, LAST NIGHT, 
LOVE! 

I DREA3IED of tlicc last night, love. 
And I tliought that one came down 

From scenes of azure light, love, 
The most beautiful to crown. 

•He wandered forth where diamonds 
And jewels rich and rare 
. Shone brightly 'mid the glittering throng, 
Yet crowned no one there. 

He passed by all others, 

Till he came to where thou stood ; 
And chose thee as the beautiful. 

Because thou wast so good. 

And said, as there he crowned thee, 

That Goodness did excel 
The jewels all around thee 

In which beauty seemed to dwell. 

For Goodness is that beauty 

Which will foi'cver last ; 
Then, crowning thee most beautiful, 

From earth to heaven he passed. 



MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT. 211 



THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS. 

TuEY tell of happy bowers, 

Where rainbow-tinted (lowers 
Bloom bright witli sweetest fragrance, and never, never die ' 

Where friends are joined forever, 

Where parting hours come never. 
And that that happier land is far beyond the sky ; — 

That when this life is ended 

The spirit there ascended 
Shall meet in happy unison the spirits gone before ; 

And all tliat here hatli vexed us. 

With seeming ill perplexed us, 
We shall §ee was for the best, and Oiod of aU adore. 

Then, brother, hope and cheer thee, 

For glorious hours are near thee, 
L thou but livcst holy, and hope, and trust, and wait ; 

Soon, trials uU departed. 

Thou, heavenward, homeward started, 
Shalt find a glorious entrance at heaven's golden gate. 



MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOYE NOT, 

Man cannot live and love not ; 

Around, beneath, above. 
There is that 's bright and beautiful, 

And worthy of his love ; 
There is in every object 

That works out nature's plan, 
Howe'er so low and humble. 

That 's worth the love of man. 

Each blade of grass that springeth 

From earth to beauty fair ; 
Each tiny bird that wingeth 

Ita course through trackless air ; 



212 UALF HOUR BTORIES. 

Each worm that crawls beneath thee, 
Each croiiturc, groat and small, 

Is wortliy of thy loving ; 

For God hath made them all. 

Should earthly friends forsake thee, 

And esxrtli to thco look drear ; 
Should morning's dark forebodings 

But fill thy soul with fear, 
Look up ! and cheer thy spirit — 

Up to thy God above ; 
He '11 be thy friend forever — 

Forever ! — " God is Love ! 



BETTER THAN GOLD. 

" Find we Lorenzo wiser for his wealth ? 
What if thy rental I inform, and draw 
An inventory new to set thee right ? 
Where is thy treasure ? Gold says, ' Not in me ! ' 
And not in me, the diamond. Gold is poor, 

Indies insolvent . Seek it in thyself, 

Seek in thy naked self, and find it there." 

Gold is, in itself, harmless — brilliant, beautiful to look 
upon ; but, when man entertains an ungovernable, all-absorb- 
ing love of it, gold is his curse and a mill-stone around hia 
neck, drawing him down to earth. How much sorrow that 
love has caused ! 0, there- is love that is angelic! But high 
and holy as love is when bestowed upon a worthy object, in 
like proportion is it base and ignoble when fixed upon that 
which is unworthy. 

It may well be questioned whether; taking a broad view 
of the matter, gold has not produced more evil than good. 
Point out, if you can, one crime, be it the most heinous and 
inhuman of which you can possibly conceive, that has not 
been perpetrated for the sake of gold, or has not its equal in 
the history of the battle for wealth. We can conceive of no 
worse a thing than a human soul idolizing a mass of shining 
metal, and counting out, with lean and tremulous hands, the 
coined dollars. Late and early the devotee bows at the 
shrine. No motive can induce him to remove his fixed gaze 
from the god he worships. No act .too base for him to exe- 
cute if gold holds out its glittering ipur^-r^o tears of 



214 HALF HO STORIES. 

■widows, no orphan's cry, no brother's famishing look, no pa- 
rent's imploring gazC; no wife's loving appeal, doth he heed ; 
but on, and on, day by day, night by night, he rakes together 
the scattered iragments, rears his altar, and lays his soul 
upon it, a burnt sacrifice to his God. 

It was the first day of the trial, and the excitement was 
intense. The court-house was filled at an early hour to its 
utmost capacity, whilst the lanes leading to it were completely 
blocked up with crowds of inquisitive inquirers. The pro- 
fessor left his study, the trader his accounts, and the mechanic 
dismissed for a while the toil of his avocation. 

The judges had arrived ; the counsel of both parties were 
at their respective desks ; all were eager to get a full sight — 
if not this, a passing glance — at the prisoner's face. They 
were looking for his arrival, and if a close carriage drew near, 
they believed he was within, until the carriage passing by 
withered all their hopes, and blasted their fond expectations. 
Such was the state of feeling when a rumor began to pass 
round that he, tlie prisoner, had been privately conveyed into 
court. Some believed, and some disbelieved ; some went 
away, whilst others remained, not giving up all hope of having 
their desire gratified. — But why all this ? 

Pedro Castello, a young man, an Italian by birth, had been 
indicted, and was soon to be tried, charged with- two hein- 
ous crimes — murder and robbery. The murdered was an 
aged person, one of a very quiet and sedate character, whose 
every movement seemed to be by stealth, and who seemed to 
care for none but himself, but who took particular interest in 
what he did care for. This individual had, for quite a num- 
ber of years, been a resident in the town where the incidents 
we now propose to relate transpired. 

Lorenzo Pedaa had the reputation of being wealthy. 
Whether he was so or not, no one could positively determine; 
it least, many thought so, and here a farmer, there a me- 



BETTER Tr''-.'I GOLD. 215 

chanic, offered to bet all that he was worth that "Renzo," 
as he was called, could show his fifty thousand. It vas well 
known that he was once in prosperous business ; that then, 
as the saying is, he moved on '-swimmingly." But, two or 
three years previous to the time we now speak of, he sud- 
denly gave up business, closed his store, hired a small and 
retired hous^, and lived in as secluded a state as living in the 
world and not in a forest would admit of. He was his own 
master, his own servant, cook and all else. Visitors seldom 
if ever darkened his door ; and, when necessity obliged him 
to leave his house, it was Avith the utmost precaution he made 
fast his door before starting. Proceeding a short distance, 
he became possessed with the idea that all was not right, and 
would return to his dwelling closely to scrutinize every part. 
Tills and many other characteristics of Pedan induced a 
belief in the minds of his townsmen that he had by degrees 
become possessed of an avaricious disposition, and that his 
miserly views of the " whole duty of man " had induced 
him to secrete huge boxes of silver, and bags of gold in 
crevices of his cellar, vacancies in his chimney, and luusty 
and dusty corners of his garret. 

Various were the tricks played upon Lorenzo by the boys 
of the town. At times they would place logs of Avood against 
his door, and arrange them in such a position that when the 
door was opened they would inevitably fall in ; yet he did 
not care for this, — we mean he found no fault with this trick, 
for he usually claimed the fuel for damages occasioned by 
its coming in too close proximity with his aged self. 

Sometimes these " villanous boys," as Avidow Todd, a 
notorious disseminator of town scandal, called them, would 
fasten his door ; then, having hid behind some bushes, laugh 
heartily as they beheld Mr. Pedan exhibit himself at the 
window, at which place he got out. We will not attempt to 
relate one half or one quarter of these tricks ; we will say 



216 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

nothing of sundry cats, kittens, etc., that were crowded into 
boxes and marked " Pedro — this side up with infinite care ; " 
nor about certain black, white, and yellow dogs, that were tied 
to all his door-handles, and made night hideous in the exer- 
cise of their vocal powers. We will not weary our readers 
with such details. Suffice it to say that they were all perpe- 
trated, and that he, the aforesaid Lorenzo Pedan, received 
the indignities heaped upon him with a degree of patieuoj 
and fortitude rivalled only by tliat of the martyrs of the- 
dark ages. He was, in fact, a martyr to his love of gold , 
and a recompense for all his outward troubles was tiie satisfac- 
tion of knowing that he might be rich some time, if he was 
prudent. 

Lorenzo was undoubteilly rich, yet he derived no enjoy- 
ment from his abundance ; on the contrary, it caused him 
much trouble, care, and watchfulness; and not possessing 
any benevolent feelings, prompting him to spend his gold 
and silver for his own good or the good of his fellow-men, 
tlie poorest man, with all his poverty, — he who only by his 
daily toil earned his daily bread, — was far more wealthy 
than he. 

He passed on in this way for some time, when, on a certain 
morning, he not having made his appearance for some days 
previous, his door was burst open, and the expectations of 
not a few realized upon- finding him murdered. All the fur- 
niture and even the wainscotings of the liouse were thrown 
about in dread disorder ; scarcely an article seemed to he in 
its right place. The robber or robbers were undoubtedly on 
the alert for money, and they left no spot untouched where 
possibly they might find it. They pulled up parts of the 
floor, tore away the ceiling, and left marks of theii' visit from 
cellar to garret. 

Immediate efforts were made and measures taken to ferret 
out the pei-petrator of this daring crime. . These were, for a 



BETTER THAN GOLD. 217 

considerable length of time, fruitless, and, the excitement that 
at first arose being somewhat quelled, some thought the 
search that iiad been instituted was given, or about to be 
given, up, when a man by the name of Smith came foi'ward, 
and stated that, about nine days previous to the discov- 
ery, as he was passing the house of the deceased, ho heard a 
faint cry, as of one in distress, and, turning round, noticed 
a young man running in groat haste. He. at the time, 
thought little of this incident, as he supposed the boys were 
engaged in some of their tricks. It had entirely pnssed his 
recollection, until, hearing of the murder, he instantly recol- 
lected the circumstance, and now he did not entertain a 
doubt that the young man whom he saw was the murderer. 

It appeared strange to some that this man had not made 
all this known before; and that now, at so late a period, he 
should come forward and with such apparent eagerness make 
the disclosures. Being asked why he had not come forward 
before, he promptly replied that he did not wish to suspect 
any person, for fear he might be mistaken. 

Eiforts were now made, and excitement had again risen, 
to find out a young man answering the description given by 
Smith, whom he alleged to be one short in stature, and wear- 
ing a fur cap. Pedro Castello, by birth an Italian, by trade 
a jeweller, Avho had resided in the town a few years, was of 
t!i is description. He was not very tarll, neither very short; 
but the fur cap he wore made up all deficiencies in stature. 
Smith swore to liis identity, and, at his Instigation, he was 
ai rested, and with great coolness and self-possession passed 
through a short examination, which resulted in his being 
placed in custody to await his trial at the next session of a 
liigher court The only evidence against him was that of 
Smith and his sgn ; that of the former was in substance what 
has already been stated, and that of the latter only served to 
support and partially confirm the evidence of the former. A 
19 



218 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

host of townsmen appearei to attest to the good chiracter of 
the accused; and, with such evidence fc\- and against, he was 
comniitted. 

Never was man led to prison who behaved with a greater 
degree of composure. Conscious of his innocence, he acted 
not the part of a guilty man, but, relying upon justice for 
an iniparti.il tii;il. he walked with a firm step, and unilineh- 
iugly entered a felons cell. 

In tAvo months his trial v/as to commence, and that shoit 
period soon elapsed. Tiie morning of the tiial came: all 
vvas excitement, as we have before said. A trial for murder ! 
Such an event forms an era in the histoi-y of a town, from 
■which many date. That one so long esteemed as an excel- 
lent neighbor, and of whose untarnished character there 
could be no doubt, should be suddenly arrested, charged with 
the committal of a crime at the thought of which human 
nature revolts, was a foot the belief of which was hardly 
credible. Ho himself I'cmained not unmoved by the vast 
concourse of spectators ; lie thought he could rcrid in the 
pitying glance of each an acquittal. An acquittal at the 
bar of public opinion always has and always w^ill be esteemed 
of more value than one handed in by a jury of twelve : yet 
by that jury of twelve men he was to be tried, — he must 
look to them f6r his release, if he was to obtain it. Their 
decision would condemn him to an ignoble death, or bid him 
go forth once more a frea.man. He had obtained the best 
of counsel, by wliose advice he selected, from twenty-five 
jurors, twelve, whose verdict was to seal his late. 

The trial conmienced. A deep silence prevailed, broken 
only by the voice of the govennnent oITieei': who brieUy 
stated an outline of the ficts,*to wit : " That murder and rob- 
bery had been conmiitted ; that a young man was seen hastily 
leaving the spot upon which the crime was committed ; that 
the appearance of the defenJant was precisely that of the 



BETTER THAN GOLD. 219 

person thus seen ; said he should not enter into an examina- 
tion jf the previous character of the prisoner, giving as a 
reason that a man may live long as a person of unquestion- 
able character, and after all yield to some strong temptation 
and fall from the standard of excellence he Imd hitherto at- 
tained : he should present all the facts that had come, to his 
knowledge, tending to substantiate the charge, and would 
leave it to the prisoner and his counsel to undermine the evi- 
dence he presented, and to prove the accused innocent, if 
possible ; all that he should do would be to attempt to prove 
him guilty ; if he failed to do so a verdict must be rendered 
accordingly." Having said this, he called upon his witnesses. 
Those who first discovered the outrage were called and testi- 
fied to what they saw. John Smith was next called, and 
gave in as evidence what has before been stated : at the close 
of a strict cross-examination he returned to his seat. His 
son Levi was next called, and stated that his father was out 
the night he himself stated he was ; he went out about half- 
past six or seven ; did not say where he was going, or how 
long he should be out ; he came home about eleven. 

Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon 
his fother's going out, to state where he was going or Avhen he 
should return. He answered in the affirmative. This was all 
the knowledge Levi Smith had of the afiair, and -with this the 
evidence for the government closed. 

Jhe counsel for the defendant stated, iu the openiflfi, that 
all he should attempt to prove would be the bad character of 
the principal witness, Jolm Smith, and the unexc^P&nable 
character of the prisoner. He would prove that ^fe reputa- 
tion of Smith for truth and veracity was bad, and that there- 
fore no reliance could be placed upon his statements. He 
should present the facts as they wei-e, and leave it to them 
to say whether his chent was innocent or guilty. 

A person by the name of Renza was first called, who 



220 IIAIJ" HOl'U STOKIKS. 

titatctl th;it for about two yours ho had vrsidod in tlio house 
viih the prisonoi ; that he esteeuiod him as a tVioml ; that tho 
prisouoi' liad treated hiiu as a brother, — had i ever seen any- 
thing amiss in his eot»duot,^-at night lie oame directly liome 
frou) his plaee of business, Avas generally in at nine, seldom 
out later than ten, — remembered the night in (juestion, — 
thought he was in about ten, but Nvas not certain on that 
point, — had been acquainted uith John Smith tor a number 
ot years, — -had not saidmncli to liim during that time.— hnti 
often seen him walking about the streets, — had known him 
to be quarrelsome and avarieio\is, easily provoked, and rather 
lacking in giH>d principle. After a few cross-questions tho 
witness took his .seat. 

Seven others were called, whose testimony Avas similar to 
the above, placing the evidence of the principal government 
witness in rather a disagreeable light. The evidence being 
in on both sides, the prisoner's connsel stootl forth to vindi- 
cate the innocence of Castello. For three hours ho faith- 
fully advocated the eanse, dwelt long upon the ix>putation of 
Smith, and asked whether a man should bo convicted upon 
siu'h rotten evidence. lie brought to light the character of 
Smith, and that of Castello ; placed them in conti-ast, and 
bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why 
Smith, when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a per- 
so)i runniiig fiom the place whence tho sound procoedevl, why, 
w1km^^» iieurd and beheld all this, he did not make an alariu ; 
why did Smith keep it a secret, and not till nine iKiys had 
elaps^^toiake this known .' " Perhaps he would reply, ' ar- 
gued th^ttunsel, "that he did not wish to suspect any per- 
son, fearing tho posou suspected might be the Avrong one ; 
if so, why did he not inform of the person he s;vw running ? 
If ho was not the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate 
something that would lead to the detection of him who Avas. 
Beside, if 1m) had doubts whetlier it was right to inform then. 



BETTER THAN GOLD. 221 

wlij does he do so now with so much eagerness ? It would 
be natural for one, after hearing such fearful noises, — after 
seeing what he testifies to having seen, — to have related it to 
some one; but no — Smith keeps all this important informa- 
tion treasured up, and not till two weeks had neqjly passed 
does he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to 
the truth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he 
never saw a person running from that house ; ho might have 
heard the noise — I will not dispute that. I believe his story 
has been cut and dried for the occasion, and surely nine days 
and nights have afforded him ample time to do so. The 
brains of an o.x could concoct such ideas in nine days. Now 
comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story ? Of 
what benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded court- 
room ? Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you hia 
reasons ; to him and to his God they are only known. The 
veil which, in my opinion, now shrouds this affair, will some 
day be withdrawn, and we shall know the truth, even as 
it is." 

The defence here closed. The officer for the prosecution 
now arose, and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his 
side of the question. He thought the reasons why Smith 
had not before informed were full and explicit ; and, as to 
the testimony of the eight as to the past good character of 
the prisoner, he saw no reason why a man should be always 
good because for two or more years he had been so. A 
great temptation ^vas presented; he was young — perhaps at 
the moment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime ; 
he did not resist, but yielded ; and as to the ai-gument of the 
learned counsel, that Mr. S. did not see what he testifies to 
have seen, it is useless to refute such an unfounded allega- 
tion. Can you suppose Smith to be l)enefited by this pros- 
ecution further than to see justice have its dues'? Settle it 
then in your minds that Mr. Smith did actually see all he 
19* 



222 . HALF HOUR STORIES. 

says lie did. We come next to the description given by 
Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, 
and wearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner, — is he not 
short 7 — and the testimony of two of the previous witnesses 
distinctly affirm that for the past six weeks he has worn a 
fur cap. What more evidence do you want to piove his 
guilt] 

The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a 
faint outline of his remarks ; they were forcible and to the 
point. 

It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the 
judge arose to charge the jury. He commented rather 
SL'vcrely upon the attempt to impeach the character of Smith. 
His address was not lengthy, and in about thirty minutes the 
juiy retired, while a crowded audience anxiously waited their 
leturn. It was not till the rays of the morning sun began 
to be seen that it was rumored that they had arrived at a 
decision and would soon enter. All was silent as the tomb. 
The prisoner, although aware that his life was at stake, sat 
in great composure, frequently holding converse with his 
fiic'uds who gathered around. How anxiously all eyes were 
turned towards the door by which they were to enter, wish- 
ing, yet dreading, to hear the final secret ! The interest of 
all watched tlieir movements and seemed to read acquittal 
upon each juror's face. The prisoner arose, the foreman and 
he bokii g each other in the fiice. The clerk put the ques- 
tion. "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock 
was distinctly heard. " Guilty ! " responded the foreman. A 
verdict so unexpected by all could not be received in silence, 
and, as with one voice, the multitude shouted "False! 
false ! FALSE ! " With great difficulty Avere they silenced 
and restrained from rescuing the prisoner, who, though 
greatly disappointed, heard the verdict without much agita- 
tion. Innocent, he was convinced that justice would finally 



BETTEK THAN GOLD. 223 

triumpV., though injustice for a moment might seem to have 
the ascendency. 

One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon 
the young Italian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts 
his friends made for his pardon, he was committed to prison to 
await tlie arrival of that day when innocence should suffer in 
the place of guilt, and he should by the rough hands of the 
law be unjustly dragged to the gallows, and meet his death at 
so WTetched a place ; yet far better was it for him, and of 
this was he aware, to be led to that place free from the blood 
of all men. than to proceed there a guilty criminal, his hands 
dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature, pointed out as a 
murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of condemnation. 
He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a spark, yea, 
a burning flame, of pity siione for him, — that he met not his 
death uncared for, — that many a tear would flow in pity for 
him, and that he would wend his way to the scafibkl com- 
forted by the consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by 
many dear friends. 

****** 

The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people 
flocked to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing — to 
allay their curiosity — even though that sight were nothing 
less than the death of a fellow-being. Crowds had assem- 
bled. A murder had been committed, and now another was 
to follow. To be sure it was to be executed "according to 
huv," but that law was inspired with the spirit of revenge. 
Its mottc was " blood for blood." It forgot the precept" of 
Christ, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a 
wrong when committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong 
when committed by many, or by their sanction, in public. The 
condemned stood upon the death-plank, yet he hoped justice 
would be done. "Hope!" what a cheering woi*d ! 'twill 
nerve man for every trial. Yes, Castello hoped, and relied 



224 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported him, and had 
enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of afflic- 
tion. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the 
oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I 
am innocent, and that truth is to me better tliau gold." 

It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time — now but 
three — but two. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What 
ij the cause of the sudden movement?- But a few moments 
since and all were silently gazing at the centre of attraction, 
the scaifold. Lo, a messenger, breathless with haste, shout- 
ing " innocent ! innocent! innocent!" and a passage 
is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the 
news. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, " INKO- 
CENT ! " and pressing forward touches the gallows just as 
Castello is about to be launched forth. The stranger ascends 
the steps and begs that the execution may be deferred, at 
least until he can relate some recent disclosures. His wish 
is granted; and he speaks nearly as follows : 

" The testimony of the principal witness was doubted. Last 
night I remained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great 
excitement I did not retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoin- 
ing that in which Smith lodged. About midnight I heard a 
voice in that room. I went to the door, and, fearing he was 
sick and desired aid, I entered. He was asleep, and did not 
awake upon my entering, but continued talking. I thought 
it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and having 
nothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in some- 
what this manner, and you may judge of my surprise while 
I listened: 

"'I'm rich; too bad Pedro should die; but I 'm rich ; 
no matter, I 'm rich. KiAgs kill their millions for a little 
money. I only kill one man ; in six months 't will be for- 
gotten ; then I'll go to the bank of earth back of the red 
mill and get the gold ; I placed it there safe, and safe it is. 



BETTER THAN GOLD. 225 

Ha, ha! I made that stoiy in nine days — so I did, and might 
have made it in less ; let him die. But supposing I should 
be detected ; then it may be that I sliall find that Pedro is 
right when he says there is something better than gold. But 
I am in no danger. The secret is in my own heart, locked 
up, and no one has the key but myself: so cheer thee, my 
soul, I'm safe! — and yet I don't feel right. I shall feel, 
when Pedro dies, that I kill him ; but why should I care 7 I, 
who have killed one, may kill another !' 

" After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened 
to the spot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying 
myself whether what he had ramblingly spoken of was truth 
or fancy. After searching the hill for over an hour, I found 
a stone, or rather stumbled against it ; I threw it aside, so 
that others might not stumble over it as I had, when to my 
astonishment I found it to be a large flat one, beneath which 
I found a collection of bags and boxes, which upon opening I 
found filled with gold and silver coin, and in each box a small 
paper, — one of which I hold in my hand ; all are alike, and 
written upon each are these words : 

"•This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who 
enjoyed it but little Iwmself ; he leaves it to posterity, and 
hopes that they may find jnore pleasure and more satisfaction 
in its use than he ever did.' 

" Not content with this, I pushed my researches still fur- 
ther and, having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found 
this knife, all bloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly 
the same condition. Now I ask if it is not the course of 
justice to delay the execution of this young man until more 
examinations can be made 7 " 

The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sherifi", and 
stayed his avenging hand. 

" Better than gold ! " shouted the prisoner, and sank help- 
less upon the platform. 



226 HALF nOUR STORIES. 

Th.t (lay John Smith was arrested, and, being bluntlj^ 
charged with the murder, confessed all. Castcllo was imme- 
diately released, and went forth a free man. 

In four weeks Smith was no more of earth ; he had paid 
the penalty of his crimes, and died not only a murderer but 
a perjured man. 

The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon 
the subject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts 
of some of the people as they repeated the words, " Forgive 
us o7ir trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against 
us.' 



GONE AWAY. 

HE}iE. wlicrc now aro mighty cities, 

Once the Indians' wigwam stood ; 
Once their counciL-firen ilhuuined, 

Far anil near, the tangled wood. 
Here, on many a grasH-gruwn border, 

Tlien tliisy met, a ha[)py tlirong ; 
Rock and liill and vallcjy sounded 

With the music of tlieir song. 
Now they are not, — they have vanished, 

And a voice doth seem to say, 
Unto him who waits and listens, 

" Gone away, — gone away." 

Yonder in tlio.se valKiys gathered 

Many a sage in d.iys gone by ; 
Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended, 

Slowly, {leacefully, on high. 
Indian molliers thus their children 

Taught around the birchen fire, — 
" Look ye up to the great Spirit ! 

To his hunting-grounds aspire." 
Now those fires are all extinguished ; 

Fire and wigwam, where are they? 
Hear ye not those voices whispering, 

" Gone away, — gone away I " 

Hero the Indian girl her trcases 
Braided with a maiden's pride ; 

Hero tiie lover wooed and won her, 
On Tri-mountain'a grassy side. 

Here they roamed from rock to river, 
Mountain peak and hidden cave ; 



HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Here the light canoo they paddled 

O'er the undulating wave. 
All have vanished ; — lovers, maidens, 

Meet not ou these hills to-day. 
But unnumbered voices whisper, 

" Gone away, — gone away ! " 

' Gone away : " Yes, whtire the waters 

Of the Mississippi roll, 
Ani Niagara's ceaseless thunders 

"With their might suMue the soul, 
N4)w the noble Indian standeth 

Gazing at tlie eagle's flight, 
Conscious that the great good Spirit 

Will aeeouiplish all things riglit. 
Though like forest-leaves they 're passiiig, 

They who once held boundless sway, 
And of them 't will soon be written, 

'• Gone away, — gone away ! " 

As they stand upon tlie mountain, 

And behold the white man press 
Onward, onward, never ceasing, 

Mighty in his earnestness ; 
As they vie^v Ins temples rising, 

And liis white sails dot the seas, 
And his myriad thousands gatliering, 

Hewing down tlie forest trees ; 
Thus they muse : '• Let them press onward, 

Not far distant is the day 
When oi them a voice shall whisper, 

' (lone away, — gone away ! ' " 



LINES TO MY WIFE 

Tuou art ever standing near me. 
In wakeful hours and dreams ; 

Like an angel-one, attendant 
On life and all its themes ; 



TO MY WIFE. 229 

And though I wander from thee, 

In lands afar away, 
I dream of thee at night, and wake 

To think of thee by day. 

In the morning, when the twilight, 

Like a spirit kind and true. 
Comes with its gentle influence, 

It whispereth of you. 
For I know that thou art present. 

With love tluit seems to bo 
A band to bind me willingly 

To heaven and to thee. 

At noon-day, when the tumult and 

The din of life is heard. 
When in life's battle each heart is 

With various passions stirred, 
I turn me from the blazonry, 

The fickleness of life. 
And think of thee in earnest thought, 

My dearest one — my wife ! 

When the daylight hath departed. 

And shadows of the night 
Bring forth the ^tars, as beacons fair 

For angels in their flight, 
r think of thee as ever mine, 

Of thee as ever best, 
And turn my heart unto thine own. 

To seek its wonted rest. 

Thus ever thou art round my path, 

And doubly dear thou art 
When, with my lips pressed to thine own, 

I feel thy beating heart. 
And through the many joys and griefs, 

The lights and shades of life, 
It will be joy to call thee by 

The holy name of • ' wife ! ' ' 

20 ' 



230 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

I love thoc for thy gentleness, 
1 love tiiec for tliy truth ; 

1 love' thee for thy joyousness, 
Thy huoyancy of youth 

I love thee for thy soul that soars 
, Ahove earth's sordid pelf; 

And last, not least, above these all, 
I love thee for thyself. 

Now come to me, my dearest. 

Place thy haud in mine own ; 
Look in mine eyes, and see how deep 

My love for thee hath grown ; 
And I will press thee to my heart, 

Will call thee " my dear wife," 
And ovra that thou art all my joy 

And happiness of life. 



CIlEEll UP. 

Cheer up, cheer up, my own fair one ! 

Let gladness take the place of sorrow ; 
Clouds shall not longer hide the sun, — 

There is, there is a brighter morrow ! 

'T is coming fast. I see its da-wn. 

See ! look you, how it gilds the mountain ! 
We soon shall mark its happy morn. 

Sending its light o'er stream and fountain. 

My bird sings with a clearer note ; 

He seems to know our hopes are brighter. 
And almost tires his little throat 

To let us know his heart beats lighter. 

I wonder if he knows how dark 

The clouds were when they gathered o'er us ! 



TRUST THOU IN GOD. 23] 

No matter, — gayly as a lark 
-He sings that bright paths are before us. 

So cheer thee up, my brightest, best ! 

For clear 's the irky, aud fair "s tlie weather. 
Since hand in hand wo 've pa8t_the test, 

Hence heart in heart we '11 love together. 



TRUST TilOU IN GOD 

Tkust thou in God ! he '11 guide theo 

When arms of flesh sliall fail ; 
With every good provide thee, 
And make his grace prevail. 
Where danger most is found, 
There he his power discloseth ; 
And 'neath his arm, 
Free from all harm. 
The trustiug soul reposeth. 

Truj|t thou in God, though sorrow 

Thine earthly hopes destroy ; 
To him l)elongs the morrow. 

And he will send thee joy. f 

When sorrows gather near, 

Then he '11 delight to bless thee! 
When all is joy, 
Without alloy, 
Thine earthly friends caress thee. 

Trust thou in God ! he rcigneth 

The Lord of lords on high ; 
Hia justice he maintaineth 

In his unclouded sky. 

To triumph Wrong may seem, 



232 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

The day, yet justice winneth, 
And from tlie earth 
Shall song8 of mirth 

Rise, when its sway beginneth. 

Wlien friends grow faint and weary, 

When thorns are on thy way, 
When life to thee is dreary, 
"When clouded is thy day, 
Then put thy trust in God, 
Hope on, and hoping ever ; 
Give him thy iieart. 
Nor seek to part 
The love which none can sever ! 



THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW. 

There 's sorrow in thy heart to-day, 

There 's sadness on thy brow ; 
For she, the loved, hath passed away, 

And thou art mourning now. 
The eye that once did sparkle bright— 

Tlie hand that pressed thine own, 
No more shall gladden on thy sight, — 

Thy cherished one hath flown. 

And thou didst love her well, 't is true ; 

Now thou canst love her more. 
Since she hath left this world, and you, 

On angel wings to soar 
Above the world, its ceaseless strife. 

Its turmoil and its care, 
To enter on eternal life, 

And reign in glory there. 

0, let this thought now cheer thy soul, 
And bid tliy tears depart ; 



• THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW. 233 

A few more days their course shall roll, 

Thou "It meet, no more to part. 
No more upon thiuo ear shallfcfall, 

The saddening word " farewell •" 
No more a parting hour, but all 

In perfect union dwell. 

This world is not the home of man ; 

Death palsies with its gloom, 
Marks out his life-course but a span, 

And points him to the tomb ; 
But, tlianks to Heaven, 't is but the gate 

By -which we enter bliss ; 
Since such a life our spirits wait, 

0, cheer thy soul in this, — 

And let the sorrow that doth press 

Thy spirit down to-day 
So minister that it may bless 

Thee on thy pilgrim way ; 
And as thy friends shall, one by one. 

Leave earth above to dwell, 
Say ;hou to God, " Thy will be done, 

T',.ou doest all things well. ' ' 

20* 



GIVING PUPLICITY TO BUSINESS. 

FiiOAf tlie nrlicst ages of society some means have been 
i-o.soited to whereby t) give publicity to business which would 
otlierwise remain in conipai-ativo privacy. The earliest of 
modes adopted was the crying of names in the streets ; and 
before the invention of printing men were employed to trav- 
ci'se the most frecjuented thoroughfares, to stand in the mar- 
ket-places and other spots of resort, and, with loud voices, 
})roclaim their message to the peojde. This mode is not alto- 
gether out of use at the present time ; yet it is not generally 
considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it docs not accom- 
plish its purpose so readily or completely as any one of the 
numerous other methods resorted to. 

Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and 
newspapers, have been the principal cliannels of communica- 
tion between the inside of the dealer's shop and the eye of the 
purchaser, and from that to the inside of his purse. So 
advantageous have these modes been found, that it is a rare 
thing to find a single individual who does not, either on a 
large or small scale, rein the press into the path he travels, 
and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own. 

England and France have taken the lead in this mode of 
giving publicity tc business; but the United States, with its 
unwillingness to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made 
such rapid strides of late in this enterprise, that the English 
lion will be lef: in the rear, and the French eagle far in the 
backirround. 



GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 235 

In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. 
Of these was that of a man who wislied to prepare a sort of 
buiub-sholl, to be filled with cai'ds or bills, which, on reaching 
a certain elevation above the city, would explode, and thus 
scatter tliese carrier doves of information in all conceivable 
directions. In that city, butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, 
receive <juitc an income from persons who wish their cards 
attached to the various commodities in v/hicli they deal. 
Thus, a person receiving "a fish, a loaf, or a piece of meat, 
finds the axlvertisement of a dealer m silks and satins attached 
to the tail of the fish ; that of an auction sale of domestic 
flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering 
notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around 
the meat. 

In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets, 
suspended across the public ways, or hung upon the walls. 

In this-counti-y, no person has taken the lead of a famous 
doctor in the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the 
Union was one-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise 
of his compound. In fact, he published papers of his own, 
the articles in which were characterized by the " one idea 
principle," and that one idea was contained in a bottle of Dr. 

's save all and cure all, "none true Imt the genuine*," 

"warranted not to burst the bottles or become sour." In 
addition to these, he issued an almanac — millions of them — 
bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings 
to the "regulars" in the medical fraternity. These alma- 
nacs were distributed everywhere. They came down on the 
American people like rain-drops. The result was, as we all 
know, the doctor flourished in a fortune equal to his fame, 
and disposed of his interest in the business, a few yearf 
since, for one hundred thousand dollars. 

The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, 
some firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this 



236 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

mode of making known tlicir business. It has been truly 
said that a card in a newspaper, that costs but a few dolhirs, 
is of far more value than costly signs 3ver one's door. The 
former thousands behold, and are directed to jour place of 
business ; the latter very few notice who do not know the 
fact it makes known before they see it. 

Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, 
nearly every one has adopted the means that led to it, and the 
advertising system has become universal. 

We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the 
sound of the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen 
coat entered with an armful of books, and gave to each pas- 
senger a copy, without a hint about pay. Thanking him for 
the gift, and astonished at his generosity, we proceeded to 
open it, when "Wonderful cures," "Consumption," " Scrof- 
ula,' "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our eyes on every 
page. Illustrated, too ! Here was represented a man appar- 
ently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be a 
woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, 
throwing obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two- 
quart bottle of sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a 
brown linen coat, to suppose that we, just on the eve of a 
pleasure excursion, are troubled with such complaints, and 
stand in need of such a remedy ! 

You buy a ncAvspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the 
anticipation of a glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages, 
when, lo and behold ! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, 
and you are informed of the consoling truth that you can 
have all your teeth drawn for a trifle, and a new set inserted 
at a low price, by a distinguished dentist from London. The 
bill is indignantly thrown aside, and you commence reading 
an article under the caption of " xin interesting incident," 
which, Avhen half finished, you find to refer to a young lady 
whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use of 



GIVINU PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS. 237 

' Chaulks Poudrcs." a box of wlucli can be obtained at 96 
Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column' 
headed "An act of mercy," you find at its close a most 
pathetic appeal to your tender sensibilities in an affectionate 
.-equest for you to call on Dr. Digg and have your corns 
extracted without pain. Despairing of finding the "intellect- 
ual treat," you l.iy the paper aside, and resolve upon taking 
a walk. 

Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large 
letters and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, 
flaunting flags with flaming notices. Beneath you, marble 
slabs inscribed with tlie names of trados and their goods. 
Around you, boys with their arms full of pi-inted notices, and 
men encased with boards on which are mannnoth posters. Sick 
of seeing these, you close your eyes ; but you don't escape so 
Ciisily ; — a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice, if not 
like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake, pro- 
claims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afllicted. 

And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is busi- 
ness, business, and we ask for '• some vast wilderness" in 
which to lie down and get cool, and keep quiet. 

In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has 
not yet come in vogue among us. A long story is written ; 
in the course of this story, a dozen or more establishments 
receive the author's ' laudations, which are so ingeniously 
interwoven, that the reader is scarcely awfire of the Jesign. 
For instance, Marnetta is going to an evening party. In the 
morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of gentility, a 
young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit entei'ing- 
the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the mosticau- 
tiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Living 
this, she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of pru- 
dent and economical habits, by whom "our heroine" is led 
into a store where beauty and elegance are combined with 



2o8 UALF HOUR STORIES. 

dui'iibility and a low price. She wishes perfumery ; sc sho 
hastens to Viot & Sons ; for none make so good as they, and 
tlio fragrance of their store has been wafted on the winds of 
all nations. 

Thii.s irf the story led on from one step to another, with its 
interest not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces 
'•punfory," a3 it is called. And, while on this subject, we 
iiiay as well I)ring up the following specimen of this species 
of advertising. It was written by Peter Seguin, on the occa- 
sion of the first appearance in Dublin of the celebrated Mrs. 
Siddons. It caused much merriment ut the time among 
some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited 
anger. 

''The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could 
hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away 
without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic 
excellence ! this star of Melpomene ! this comet of the stage ! 
this sun of the firmament of the Muses ! this moon of blank 
vcr.Sf ! this (pieen arch-princess of tears ! this Donnellan of 
the [)oi.so,ned bowl ! this empress of the pistol and dagger ! this 
child of Sliakspcire ! this world of weeping clouds ! this Juno 
of commanding aspects ! this Terpsichore of the curtains and 
sc(.'nes ! this Proser))ine of fire and earthquake ! this Katter- 
fello of wonders ! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, 
and soared a1)ove all the natural powers of description ! She 
was nature itself! slie was the most exquisite work of art ! 
She was the very daisy, [)rinirose, tuberose, sweet-bjier, 
furze-blossom, gillillower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica aiitl 
losemary ! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus ! 
Wln'ii; e.\q)cctalion was raised so high, it was thought sho 
woulff be injured by her appearance ; but it was the audience 
Avho were injured ; several fainted before the curtain drew 
up ! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wed- 
ding-ring, ah ! what a sight was there ! The fiddlei'S in the 



GIVING I'UBLICITY TO UUSINESS. 239 

orchestra, ' al}>cit unused to the melting mood ! ' hlubbercd 
like hungry eliihiren crying for their bread and butter ; and 
when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran 
from the bassoon player's eyes in such j)lentii'ul showers, tbat 
they choked the finger-stops, and, making a S[jout of tiie in- 
strument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, 
that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader 
of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and 
sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn 
iVum the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between 
the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and 
niuo ladies fainted ! forty-six went into fits ! and ninety-five 
had strong liysterics ! The world will hardly credit the 
truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five women, 
(jne hundred tailors, and six common-council men, were actu- 
ally drowned in the inundation of tears ihat flowed fiom the 
gal lories, the slijjs and the boxes, to increase the briny pond 
in the pit; the water wfis three feet deep, and the peo[jle 
that were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that 
position up to their ancles in tears." 

There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can 
exceed the above. The author actually reached the climax, 
and all attem[)ts to overtop him weuld be useless. 

Of advertisements there have been many worthy of prest^r- 
vation: seme on account of the ingenuity displiyed in their 
composition ; some in their wit ; some for their domcbticatf^e- 
HCHS, — matrimonial oflers, for example, — and others for th(i 
conceitedness exposed in them, the ignorance of the writcis, 
or the whimsicality of the matter advertised. In 1804 therti 
was advertised in an English paper, as for sale, "7%c WfiSt^ 
of a deceased fdind heff^yai- (in a ckaritahh neifrhbor- 
hood), w'U/i his dog and staJJ'J^ 



240 uwA' iiiHni si'oiUKS. 

In tlio S/. Jiiiiirs ( '/iroiiif/f of I77ii \v.is the (oUowinf 

o 

" Wiintcil, Jirioeu Imialivil or two tlioiisaiid poiuuls, by a 
jHMSou not worfli u <^roat; Avlio, having ncitlier liousorf, lands, 
iinnuitics, or pnhlio I'undd, can ollor no ollior si'curity than 
that of a shuplc l)ond, hearing siMi|do inti-rost, and engaging 
(he rei»a3'nieiit of the sum horrowed in five, six, or seven 
^years, as may he agreed on hy (he [tallies," ();(r. 

We do not Know whether the advertiser ol>taiiied his 
jioiiiids oi- not, l)ut siieh an ad verti -(enient, no\v-a davs, would 
(haw forth a hiugii nnieh sooiur llian liie'nionev; oi\ if 
"pounds" eame, ihev would, inosl prohahly. fall u[)on the 
recipient's shoulders, instead of .into his ]>oehel. 

Tlu' Chineso are not hehiiid the age in this hfisiness. The 
iollowing is an instaiu'c in proof: 

" AoilKU Tka CiiiNeoiMi, sculptor, res[K>.-t fully acipiaints 
masti-rs of ships trading frt)ni Canton to Indiu that they may 
he furnished with figure-hoada, any sizo, according to order, 
at one-fourth of the jjrice charged in Europe, lie also rec- 
ommends, for private venture, the following idols, hrass, 
gt)ld and silver : The hawk of Vishnoo, which has reliefs of 
his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion and bull, as worshipped 
hy the pious followers of Zoroaster; two silver marmosets, 
with gold ear-rings; an ajirimanivs for Persian worship; a 
ram, an alligator, a I'rah, a laughing hyena, with a variety 
of liouseliold idols, on a small scale, caKailated for family 
worship. Eighteen months eiedit will bo given, or a discount 
of lifteen per cent, for prompt payment, on the sum aillxeil 
to each article. Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the 
niaiMe Ivhinocoros and gilt Hydra." 

Wc subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well 
carried out. 

" At the shop Tao-shing (|)rospcrous m the extrome) — 



GIVINO I'UIM.ICITY TO lUlrilNESS. 2tl 

very ^ood ink ; fiiio ! fine! Ancient . shop, ^rc;it-;^r:in(l(;itli(M', 
gnindriitlicr, lUtlicr and self, make this iid< ; fine a,n(l Imrd, 
very liard ; {)icked with caro, selected with attention. I sell 
v«;iy f^ootl ink; prime cost is very ifvuni. Tiiis ink is heavy; 
tso is ^.fold. The eye oi" the dragon glitters and da//.les ; so 
doers this ini(. No one makes like it. Others who mako 
ink make it Ibr the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, 
wiiile I make it only for a name. Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes 
(gentlemen) know my ink — my Hunily never cheated — 
they have always borne a good name. I make ink for the 
' Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the empin;. As 
the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does the fame 
of the ' dragon's jewel ' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan-tsaos, 
como to my shop and see the sign Tao-shing at the side of 
the door. It is Seou-shwuy-stroot (Small Watcr-stroct), 
outside the south gate." 
21 



THE MISSION OF KINDNES.^ 



Go to the sick iiuui's chamber ; low and soft 
Falls ou tlio liatoning ear a swoet-toncd voice ; 
A hand as gentle as the summer breeze, 
Ever inclined to oflices of good, 
Smooths o'er tlio sick man's pillow, and then tui 
To trim the midnight laniji, mojitcn the lips, 
And, passing over, soothe tlio fevered brow. 
TJms charity linds phice in woman's heart ; 
And woman kind, and beautiful, and good, 
Doth thus administer to every want 
Nov wearies in her task, but labors on, 
-And linds her joy in that which she imparts. 

Go to the prisoner's coll ; to-morrow's light 
ksliall bo the last on earth ho o'er shall see. 
llfejuiutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill 
To evdVy seni!.)lance of tlie human form. 
Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate. 
Dwell unilhuninod by (me ray of light. 
And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed 
By wiAjind storm. He may liave cause to hold 
His fellow-men as foes ; for, at the firet 
Of his departure from an npriglit course. 
They scorneil and shunned and cursed him. 
They sinned thus, and he, in spite for them, 
Ke{>t on his sullen way from wrong to wrong. 
AVhicli is the greatest sinner'? Ho shall say 
^Vho of the hearts of men alone is judge. ^ 

Now, in his oJll condemned, lie waits the hour 
Tho last 8;ul liour of luortal life to him. 



THE MISSION OF KINDNESS. 243 

Ilis oaths and blaHphoinics he smldon stays ' 

He tliinks he hoars upon his prison door 

A {gentle tap. 0, to his hardened heart 

Tliat gentle sound a sweet rcmeiubrance brings 

Of better days — two-score ol" jrCTirs gone by, 

Days when his mother, rapping softly thus. 

Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard. 

Is it a dream? Asleiip ! lie cannot sleep 

With chains around and shameful death before him ! 

Is it the false allurement of some foo 

Who would with such enticement draw him forth 

Tp meet destruction ere the appointed time? 

Softened and calmed, each angry passic^n lulled. 
By a soft voice, " Come in," ho tremliling calls. 
Slow on its hinge's turns the ponderous door. 
And " Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips. 
As dew on flowers, as rain on parched ground, 
So came the word unto the prisoner's ear. 
lie speaks not — moves not. 0, his heart is full, 
Too full for utterance ; and, as floods of tears 
Flow fi'om his eyes so all unused to weep, 
lie bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet. 

He had not known what 't was to have a friend. 
The word came to him like a voice from heaven, 
A voice of love to one who 'd hoard but hato. 
" Friend ! " Mysterious word to him who 'd known n:) friend 
O, what a power that simple word hath o'er him ! 
As now he holds the stranger's hand in his, 
And bows his head upon it, he doth seeo^ 
Gentle and kind, and docile as a child. ^ 
Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears 
Its cross on Calvary's heiglit, inspiring hope 
Which triumphs over evil and its guilt. 

0, how much changed ! and all by simple words 
Spoken in love and kindness from the heart. 
, love and kindness ! matchless pow;er have ye 
To mould the human heart ; wlnu'e'iir ye dwell 
There is no sorrow, but a living joy. 



2-14 HALF HOUR STOIUES. 

There is no man wlioni God hath placed on earth 

That hath not some humanity within, 

And is not moved with .kindness joined with love. 

The wildest savage, from whose firclit eye ■ 

Flashes the lightning passions of his soul, 

Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged. 

That he hath trusted and been basely used. 

And that to him revenge were doubly sweet. 

Dares all the world to combat and to death; — 

Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart 

A chord that quick Avill vibrate to kind words. 

Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath ; 

Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him 

Of all the evil passions with which he 

Hath mailed his soul in terrible array. 

Think not to tame the wild by brutal force. 
As well attempt to stay devouring flames 
By heaping fagots on the blazing pile. 
Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark 
Of true divinity concealed Avithin 
Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow, 
And feel its cheering warmth. 0, we lose much 
By callir^ passion's aid to vanquish wrong. 
We should stand witliin love's holy temple. 
And with persuasive kindness call men in, . 
Rather than, lea^-ing it, use other means, 
Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain, 
To force them on before us into bliss. 

Thereis a luxury in doing good 
Which nOTie but by experience e'er can know. '^■ 
lie 's blest who doetli good. Sleep comes to him 
On wings bf sweetest peace ; and angels meet 
In joyous convoys ever round Iiis couch ; 
They watch and guard, protect and pray for him.. 
All mothers !)end the knee, and cliildren too 
Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes, 
As if to porce the shadowy veil that hangs 
Between t'^emsehes and God — then pray that he 
Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man. 



A PLEA FOU THE FALLEN. 245 



A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN. 

Pity her, pity her ! Once she was fair, 
Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer ; 
Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter ; 
Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her ; 
Hoping and trusting, believing all true, 
Nothing but happiness rose to her view. 
She, as were spoken words lovers might tell, 
Listened, confided, consented, and fell ! 
Now she 's forsaken ; nursing in sorrow, 
. Hate for the night, despair for the morrow ! 

She 'd have the world think she 's happy and gay, •— 

A butterfly, roving wherever it may ; 

Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower, 

The charmed and the charmer of every hour. 

She will not betray to the world all her grief ; 

She knoAvs it is false, and will give no relief. 

She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold ; 

That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold ; 

That when in their woe the fallen do cry. 

It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die ! 

But after the hour of the world's bright show. 
When hence from her presence flatterers go ; 
When none are near to praise or caress her, 
No one stands by with fondness to bless her ; 
j^one with her thoughts, in moments like this, 
She thinks of her days of innocent bliss, • 
And she weeps ! — yes, she weeps penitent tears 
O'er the sham 3 of a life and the sorrow of years : 
She turns for a friend ; yet, alas ! none is there ; 
She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair ! 

Blame her not ! blame not, ye fathers who hold 
Daughters you value more dearly than gold ! 
But pity, 0, pity her ! take by the hand 
One who, though fallen, jec nobly may stand. 

21* 



246 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Turn not away from Iicr plea and her erics ; 
Pity and liolp, and the fallen may rise ! 
Crush not to earth the reed tliat is hroken, 
Bind up her wounds — let soft words he spoken ; 
Though she he low, though worldlings reject her, 
Let not llumanitv ever neglect her. 



JOY BEYOND. 



Beyond the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal 
Must yet be passed by every living mortal , 

There gleams a light ; 
'T is not of earth. It wavers not ; it glowoth 
With a clear radiance which no changing knoweth, 

Constant and bright. 

We love to gaze at it ; we love to cherish 

The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish, 

And naught remain 
Of all these temples, — things we now inherit. 
Each unimprisoncd, no more fettered spirit 

Shall life retain. 

And ever, through eternity unending. 

It shall unto that changeless light be tending, 

Till perfect day 
Sliall be its great reward ; and all of mystery 
That hath made up its earthly life, its history. 

Be passed away ! 

O, joyous hour ! 0, day most good and glorious ! 
When from the eartii the ransomed rise victorious, 

Its conllict o'er ; 
When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages, 
Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages, 

Joy evermore ! 



TUF HUMMEU IMYJ: ARK COMIXU, 247 



TilL' SdM^TKR JJAYS ARE COMIXG. 

TiiK Huinirjiir Cmyn aro comitif^, 

Tlio j^luriouH HUKiiiicr liourw, 
WIhui Nature dockw lu^r (.';()rp;ooiiH robo 

Witli 8urilx>aijiH and wJtIi flowers; 
And giiUna'H all licr cliorirtt'irs 

In pliiiniif^e bn'j^lit and gay, 
Till every vUle 1h oclioinfi; with 

Their joyous rourid<!lu^. 

No more shall frosty winter 

Hold in its cold euihraee 
The water ; but the riv<jr 

Shall join as:;ain the rac; ; 
And down the mountain's vaUey, 

And o'er its roeky sid<!, 
The glisUining streams shall rush and leap 

In all their (jounding pride. 

There '« pleasure in the winter, 

When o'er the i'row.ii snow 
With faithful i'r'uttvl and noMe st<ie<i 

Right merrily we go ! 
Bi4t give to me the sunrtner, 

Tiie pleasant summ";r days 
When blooming flowers and sparkling "itrearns 

Enliven all our ways. 



TIIK MAN WHO KNOWS K VEU VT II I N 0. 

Sankiocrat is OIK) of that class of persons who think tlicj 
know ov(M-ythiii^. if anything occurs, and you sock to 
iiiloiiii him, ho will interrupt you by saying that ho knows it 
aH, — that ho was on the spot when the occurrence happened, 
or tliat he had uiot a man who was an eye-witness. 

Such a. person, though ho bo the podsossor of much assur- 
ance, is sadly doficient in manners; and no doubt the su])er- 
ubundanoy of the former is caused by the groat lack of the 
hitter. 

i^uch men as ho villi thrive; ihero is no mistake about it. 
This has been called an age of invention and of huml)ug. 
Nothing is so popular, or so much souglit after, as that which 
caiuiot be (vxplainod, and around which a mysterious shroud 
is closely woven. 

My iriond Ami mis came sweating and pufiing hito my 
room. I liad just finished my dinner, and was seated lei- 
surely looking ovei- a few pages of manuscript, when ho 
entered. 

" News ! " said he ; and before I could hand him a chair 
he had told mo all about the last battle, and his tongue flew 
about with so nuieh rapidity, that a coullagration might havo 
been j)roduced by such excessive friction, had not a rap at 
I he door put a clog under the wheels of his talkative loco- 
motive, and stayed its progress, which luckily gave mo an 
opportunity to take his hat and rocpiest him to bo seated. 

The door Avas opened, and who but Snnsecrat stootl be- 
Ibre mo. 



niK MAN WHO KNOWS liVKRYTIUNU. 249 

" Have you hoard the nowH.' " was the fust intcrro^^atoiy 
of my friend ArcanuH, in reply to which Hansecrat Baid that 
ho knew it all half an hour j)roviouH,— was at the niilioad 
Htation when the express arrived, and W!i,s the first man to 
()))(!(! the Southern i)apers. 

In vaJn Arcanus told him that tho iidormation came hy a 
private letter. J To avorrcMl, point blank, that it was no such 
tliin;^; that he had the ))iip(:rs in his[)Ockot; and wasahoutto 
exhibit thoin as proof of what ho had said, when he suddctdy 
recollected that he had sold them to an editor for one-and- 
sixponc(!. 

Notwithstandin;j; the [)rovci!) of "Man, know tliyscK"," 
Siinsecrat seems to know evorythin;^ hut himself. Thousands 
of times lijis it been said th;i,t man can see innutnera,blo faults 
and f()ibl(!S in his neighbors, but none in himself. Very 
line ; and man can sec his own character, just as he can seo 
his owii fice in a mirror, llis own associates mirror forth 
his own character; and the faults, he they great or small, 
that ho sees in them, are hut the true rofloction of his own 
errors. Yet, ))lind to this, and fondly imiigining that ho is 
the very ''pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain 
focding with the cherished idea that, while others have 
faults, ho has none, and so slumbers on in the sweet repose 
of ignorance. 

Sansocrat imagines that he knows ev(;rything; that to 
t(,'ach him would be like " c;irrying coals to Newcastle," 
or sending ship-loads of ic<! to (Jroordand, or furnaces to 
th(! coast of Africa; yet ho is as ignorjint as the greatest 
dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he has hoard, without 
b;i ving the least understanding of what he says. 

Strange as it may seem, it is nev(!rtholess true that 
Sansocrat will prosper in the world; for, though destitute 
of those (pialifications which rcmder their possessor worthy 
of success, he has an abundance of brazen- litcedncbs, with 



250 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

which he will work himself into the good opinion of not 
a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance 
than thej do upon inward worth, and judge their fellow- 
men more bj the good quality of their cloth than by the 
good quality of their hearts, and set more value on a shining 
hat and an unpatched boot than the}'' do on a brilliant intel- 
lect and a noble soul 



PRIDE AND POVERTY. 

I CANNOT brook tlio proud. I cannot lovo 
The HclfiHij man ; fie Hoorus to have no heart ; 
And why he lives and moveh upon this earth 
Whicli (iod has made wj fair, I cannot tell. 
He haH no soul hut that within hiH purse, 
And ail his hopes are centred on its late ; 
That lost, and all is lost. 

I knew a man 
Who had abundant rich<is. lie was proud, — 
Too oft tlie efl'ect of riches when abused, — 
His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at 
The honest poor as base intrudi;rs on 
The earth he trod and fondly calhid liis own ; 
Unwelcome guests at Natures banqueting. 

Years passed away, — tliat youtli became a man ; 
His beetled brow, his sullen countenance. 
His eye that looked a fi(;ry c<jmmand, 
B<itrayed that his ambition was U) rule. 
He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men, 
Whom he would have bow down and worship him 
Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until 
He did become aristocrat indeed. 
The humble beggar, whose loowj rags scarce gave 
Prot<iction V^ him from the cold north wind, 
He scarce would look upon, and vainly said, 
As in his hand he held the rfiady coin, 
" No mortJi.1 nw^d be poor, — 'tis his own fac 
If such he be ; — if he court poverty, 
Let all its miseries be his to bear." 



252 HALF HOUR stories. 

'T is many years since he the proud spake thus, 
And men and things have greatly changed since then. 

No more in wealth he rolls, — men's fortunes change. 

I met a k noly hearse, slowly it passed 
Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended 
Save by one old man, and he the sexton. 
"With spade beneath his arm ho trudged along, 
Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not. 
He seemed to be in haste, for now and then 
He 'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast, 
With the rougli handle of his rusty spade. 
Him I approached, and eagerly inquired 
Whose body thus was borne so rudely to 
Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave. 
" His name was Albro," was tlie prompt reply. 
" Too proud to beg, we found hira staiTed to death, 
■ In a lone garret, which the rats and mice 
Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy. 
An' I, poor Billy Mattcrson, whom once 
He deemed too poor and low to look upon. 
Am come to bury liim." 

The sexton smiled, — 
Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag. 
Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along. 
Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand 
To wipe the eye when good men meet the gi;A.ve, — 
But Billy Mattcrson, he turned and smiled. 

The truth flashed in an instant on my mind, 
Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me. 
'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days, 
Blest with abundance, used it not aright. 
He, who blamed the poor because they were such , 
Behold his end ! — too proud to bet/, he died. 

A sad exauiple, teaching all to shun 
The rock on which he shipwrecked,-^ warning take, 
That they too fall not as he rashly fell. 



WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. 253 



WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART. 

Words, wordw ! give me those, 

WohIh l)cfittiiig wliat I feel, 
Tliiit 1 may on every lm;ezo 

Waft to those wlioyo riven eteol • 

Flitters souls and sliaekles hands 

Born to bo as free as air, 
Yofc crushed and cranii)ed by Slavery's bands, — 

Words that have an influence there. 

Words, words ! yivo me to write 

Sucli as touch the inner lioart ; 
Not mere Hitting forms of liglit, 

That please tlie oar and tlion depart ; 
But burning words, that roacli the soul, 

That bring the shreds of error out. 
That witii resistless power do roll. 

And pirt tiio hosts of Wrong to rout. 

Let otliors tune their lyres, and sing 

Illusive dreams of fancied joy ; 
But, my own harp, — its every string 

Shall find in Trutli enough employ. 
It siuiU not breathe of Freedom hero. 

While millions clank tlie galling chain ; 
Or e'en unc slave dotli bow in fear. 

Within our country's broad domain. 

Go where tlio slave-gang trembling litands, 

Herded with every stable stock, — 
Woman with fetters on her hands, 

And infants on the auction-block ! 
See, as she bends, how flow her tears ! 

Hark ! hear her liroken, trembling sighs ; 
Then hear the oaths, the throats, the jeers, 

Of men wiio lash her as she cries ! 



22 



254 nALF HOUR stories. 

0, men ! who have the power to weave 

In poesy's web deep, searching thought, 
Be truth thy aim ; henceforAvard leave 

The lyre too much with fancy fraught ! 
Come up, and let the words you write 

Be those which cver'y chain would break, 
And every sentence you indite 

Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake. 



OUR HOME. 

Our home shall be 
A cot on the mountain side. 
Where the bright waters glide, 

Sparkling and free ; 
Terrace and window o'er 
Woodbine shall graceful soar ; 
Roses shall round the door 

Blossom for thee. 

There shall be joy 
With no care to molest, — 
Quiet, serene and blest ; 

And our employ 
Work each other's pleasure ; 
Boundless be the treasure ; 
Without weight or measure. 

Free from alloy. 

Our home shall be 
Where the first ray of light 
Over the mountain height. 

Stream, rock and ti"eo, 
Joy to our cot shall bring, 
While brake and bower shall rmg 
With notes the birds shall sing, 

Loved one, for thee. 



SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEaUENCE. 

Speculation is business in a high fever. Its termina- 
tion is generally verj decided, whether favorable or other- 
wise, and tlie effect of that termination upon the individual 
most intimately coiniected with itan most cases unhealthy. 

It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that 
making haste to be rich is an evil ; and it always will be a 
truth that the natural, unforced course of human events is the 
only sure, the only rational one. 

The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a 
very foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do 
good. This is somewhat paradoxical ; for the gratification 
of the last most certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch 
as he who distributes his gains cannot accumulate to any 
great extent. 

Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is 
too often considered the end, instead of the means to an end ; 
and there never was a greater delusion in the human mind 
than that of supposing that riches confer happiness. In 
ninety -nine cases out of every hundred the opposite is the 
result. Care often bears heavily on the rich man's biow, 
and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more, and will 
not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the 
human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his 
own true nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more 
ennobling aspirations. 

In one of the most populous cities of the Union there 



256 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circum- 
stances, by tlie name of Robert Sbort. Bob, as he was 
usually called, Avas a shoemaker. With a steady run of cus- 
tom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was 
enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means 
unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses 
of the world. He looked upon all, — the rich, the poor, the 
prince, the beggar, — alike, as his brethren. He believed 
that all stood upon one platform, all were bound to the same 
haven, and that all should be equally interested in each 
other's welfare. With this belief, and with rules of a similar 
character, guided by Avhich he pursued his course of life, it 
was not to be wondered at that he could boast of many friends, 
and not strange that many should seek his acquaintance. 
There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men to asso- 
ciate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good 
character, are not so puffed up witli pride, or so elevated in 
their own estimation, as to despise the company of what are 
termed "the common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's 
evening, to enter the humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while 
the howling storm raged fiercely without, and the elements 
seemed at war, to see the contentment and peace that pre- 
vailed within. Bob, seated at his bench, might be seen busily 
employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply 
himself more diligently to his task. Six or perhaps eight 
of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated 
upon that article most convenient, — whether a stool or a pile 
of leather, it mattered not, — relating some tale of the Revolu- 
tion, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the 
respected Mr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at 
3uch a place, that our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned 
Green, and a jovial sort of a fellow by the name of Sandy, 
were seated around the red-hot cylinder. Squire Smith was 
what some would term a "man of consequence,"' — at least, 



SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 257 

he thought so. Be it known that this squire was by no 
means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He came 
in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that 
which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert 
Short, might be a great man. 

" I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I 
tell you what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to com- 
mon sense and everything else, that you remain any longer, 
riveted down to this old bench. It will be your ruin; 'pend 
upon it, it will be your ruin." 

"How sol" eagerly inquired Mr. Short. 

"Why," replied the squire, "its no use forme to go 
into particulars. But why do you not associate with more 
respectable and fashionable company 7 ' ' 

"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr, 
Short; "and as for the fashion, I follow my own." 

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shak- 
ing his head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to 
answer. 

" Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the 
squire, " are not in accordance with mine." 

"Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug 
of the shoulder. 

Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice 
the interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "-one may be as 
honest as the days are long ; but, sir, he is far from being 
respectable, in my humble opinion, if he is not genteel, — 
and certainly if he is not fashionably dressed he is not. He 
does not think enough of himself; that'' s it, my dear Mr. 
Short, he does not think enough of himself" 

" But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. " Supposing he 

does not dress so fasliionably as you would wish, would you 

condemn him for the cut of his coat, or the quality of his 

cloth 7 Perhaps his means are not very extensive, and will 

22* 



258 luiJ" HOUR stories. 

not -admit of a very expensive outliiy. merely for show. It 
is much hotter, my ileur sir, to he ek)the(l iu rags and out of 
(leht, than to be attired in tlie most eostly apparel, and that 
iH)t paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe 
no man, is to he free, free iu the truest sense of the word." 

•• Ah, I musr be on the move,'' interrupted the squire, at 
the san\e time looking at his ''gold lever.'' And otf he 
started. 

Squire Smith had said enough for that niglit; to havesjiid 
more would have injured his plan. ^Ir. Green and Sandy 
shook liands with their friend llobert, and, it being late, they 
bade him •" good-hy," and parted. Our hero was now left 
alone. Snufling the candle, that had well-nigh burnt to tho 
socket, he placed more fuel upon the lire, and, resting his 
hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands, he began 
to think over the sayings of his friend the squire 

Robert Short saw nothing of the squii-e for many days 
after the event just described transpired. One day, as he 
began his work, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the 
long absent but not forgottgn squire rushed in, sliouting 
'^ Speeulaticn ! speculation!" Mr. Short threw aside his 
A/.sV, and listened with feelings of astonishment to the elo- 
ipient words that fell from the lips of his unexpected visitor, 
'•liiull, the bi-oker,*' continued the squire, ''has just offered 
me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition, 
which is, that you and I accept his offer, and make our 
fortunes.'' 

"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate 
in what ? " 

" In eastern laud," was tli© rej|Iy. 

Hob Short's countenance assumed a despondiiig appear- 
ance ; . ho had heard of many losses cjlused by venturing in 
these speculations, and had some doubts as to his success, 



SrEOUL VTION ANl ITS CONSEQUENCE. 259 

should he accept. Then, again, ho had heard of those who 
liiul lieeu fortunate, and he inquired the conditions of sale. 

'• Wliy," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Yarnum Gull has 
three thuusaud acres of good land, upon ^vhich arc, as he 
(issitrc^ nie, some heautiful ^vatering places. It is worth five 
dollars an acre ; ho ofters it to me for one, and a grand 
cliance it is; the terms arc cash." 

" Are you certain as to the quality of the land ? " inquired 
INIr. Short. 

" Perfectly certain," was tlie reply. " I would not advise 
you wrong for the world ; but I now think it best to form a 
sort of co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no 
doubt but that we can dispose of it at a great advantage. 
Will you not agree to my proposals, and accept? " 

'•I will," answered Mr. Short. " But how can I obtain 
fifteen hundred dollai-s'? I have but a snug thousand." 

" 0, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the de- 
lighted squive. " I will loan you the balance at once. You 
can return it at some coTivenient time. What say you 1 will 
you accompany me to the broker's, and inform him of the 
agreement] " 

Ml'. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside 
his leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sal- 
lied forth in search of the office of Viu'num Gull. After 
wending their way through short streets and long lanes, nar- 
row avenues and wide alleys, they came to a small gate, upon 
which was fastened a small tin sign with the following in- 
scription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the corner, 
up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed 
the directions laid down,<and, having gone up the yard and 
turned round the corner, they" found themselves at the foot 
of the stairs. They stood for a moment silent, ajid were 
about to ascend, when a voice from above attracted their 
attention. 



260 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" "Olio, Squire, 'ere' s the box; Avalk right up 'ere; only 
look out, there 's an 'ole in the stairs." 

Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green 
spectacles drawing his head in. 

" We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the 
hole ;' but, as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see 
much ; therefore we shall be obliged to feel our way." 

They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little 
short man met them at the door, holding in his hand a paper 
bearing some resemblance to a map. 

" Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere 
bargain I expatiated on. I 'ave received many good oiFers, 
but 'ave reserved it for you. Your friend, ha 7 " he con- 
tinued, at the same time striking Mr. Short in no gentle 
manner upon the shoulder. 

" Not friend Hay^ but friend Short, ^^ replied the squire. 

" Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed 
the broker. "Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave 
become 'quainted with the rare chance I 've offered, an't 
ye ? and wish to accept it, do7i^t ye 7 and can pay for it, 
canH ye 7 Such an opportunity is seldom met with, by 
which to make one's fortune." 

" Well." replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull 
stopped to breathe, " well, I had some idea of so doing." 

" Hidea ! " quickly responded the broker ; " why will you 
'esitate 7 read that ! " and he handed a paper to Mr. Short, 
which paper he kept for reference, and pointed out to hiin 
an article which read as follows : 

"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present 
realized by traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors 
purchased a thousand acres, at one dollar and twenty-five 
cents per acre, of Gull, our enterprising broker, and sold it 
yesterday for the round sum of three thousand dollars, re- 



SrECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 261 

ceiving thereby the enormous profit of nineteen hundred and 
seventy-five dollars. lie was a poor man, but by this lucky 
movement has become rich." 

As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, 
he became elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final 
agreement with the squire to accept the offer. Papers were 
drawn up, signed by each, and a check given to the broker, 
for which was returned a deed for the land. They then left 
the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding them good-by, with a 
caution to look out foi" the " 'ole." They did look out for 
the hole, but it might have been that the cunning broker 
referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the stairs. 
The squire on that* day invited Mr. Short to his house to 
dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his 
shop. One week had passed away, during which time the 
squire was often at the shop of Bob Short, but no cus- 
tomer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the 
eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they were talking, 
over the best way by which to dispose of it, when a short 
man entered, Avrappcd up in a large cloak, and a large bushy 
fur cap upon his head. 

" I understand," saidJie, " you have a few acres of land 
you Avish to dispose of" 

" Exactly so," answered the squire. 

" And how much do you charge per acre 7 " inquired the 
stranger. 

" That depends upon the number you wisli. Do you wish 
to purchase all '? " 

" That depends upon the price charged," was the reply. 

"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith. " we will sell 
for four dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great 
sacrifice." 

"Well," resumed the stranger, " I will take it on con- 



2G2 IIAUb^ UOUR STORIES. 

(litiona; namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land 
aiiswora my pur[)osi> I will keep it, — if not, you will return 
1110 the amount of money T p:>y." 

" That i3 rather a hard hargain. I know it to be good 
huid," answered the 8(piire. 

" Then," continued the stranger, " if you knov) it to be 
good, certainly there can bo no danger in disposing of it on 
the conditions I have named." 

After a few moments' ^conversation with Mr. Short, they 
agreed to sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately 
drawn up and signed by ]\Iessrs. Smith and Short, agreeing 
to return the money provided the land did not give satisf\ic- 
tion. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was paid in cash 
to the signers, and the papers given into the liands of the 
l)urcliasor, who then left. Robert Short on that night did 
really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece ; after 
Mr, Short had .paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had 
forty-five hundred left. Both were e(][ually certain that 
the land would give entire satisfaction, and acted according 
to this belief With a' light heart he went homo, and com- 
municated the joyful intelligence to Ill's wife, who had from 
the first been opposed to the trade. He did not, hoAvcver, 
inform her of the terms onwhic]i»he had sold. In a few 
days he h;id disposed of his shop and tools to one of his 
former workmen. IMany were surprised when the sign of 
'' Roliert Short " "was taken from its long resting-place over 
the door. Mr. Siiort now began to think the house in which 
lie had for many years resided was not quite good enough, 
and t.heieforo engaged a larger sind more expensive one. 
lie ordered now furniture, purchased a carriage and iiorses. 
Mini li:id his new house fitted out under the direction of his 
frien<l. the squire, lie rented a largo store ; bought largo 
(luantities of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His busi- 
ness at first prospered, buV in a short time became quite 



SrECULATION AND ITS CUNSEQUENCE. 263 

dull ; his former customers left, and all business seemed at 
a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker had left town, 
having' sold out his office to a young man. Matters stood 
thus, -when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in Juno, 
as the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting- 
room of the latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress 
(Altered. 

• " doc'd-morning,' said the visitor. "Business is quito 
liv(;ly, I suppose .' " 

"0, ''^^ 's moderate, notliing extra," replied Mr. Short ; 
'' won't you be seated? " 

The stranger seated himself. 

" Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not ? " he in(|uired. 

" It is, sir." 

" Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern 
land, a few months since 7 " 

"Yes, some person did ;" and Mr. Short immediately recog- 
nized him as the purchaser. The new comer then took from 
his pocket the paper of agreement, and presented it for tlio 
inspection of the two gentlemen. 

" Arc you not satisfied with your bargain? " inquired Mr. 
Smitli. 

" Not exactly," 1-oplicd the stranger, laughing. 

"Why, what fatilt is there in it ? " 

" Well," replied the stranger, " I suppose a report of my 
examination will bo acceptable." 

" Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short. 

' ' Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good imfcr- 
ij/rr place, being wiEOLLY covered avitii water; and is of 
no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, m 
impossible," 

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to 



2G4 IIAIiF HOUR STORIES. 

" What is tlio iiiinio of llio water bouglit for land? " ih- 
quircd Sijuiro Smith. 

" The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles 
in length; and about six in widtii, and is known in those 
parts by the name of the ' Big Pond,' But," continued the 
stranger, "I must be gone; please return me my money, 
according to agreement." 

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the ne.xt (l;iy. 
The ne.xt day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. 
Short had tried in vain to obtain the rcijuisite sum, and wus 
obliged to reijuest him to call the next day. lie came tlie 
next day, and the next, and the next, but received no money ; 
.^and ho was at length obliged to attach the property of tho 
• S(]uire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other creditors also 
came in witli their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short was 
sold at auction, and he was a poor man. lie obtained a 
small house, that would not compare with the one he had 
lived in in former years. lie had no money of his own, and 
was still deeply in debt. He was obliged to work at such 
jobs as came along, but at length obtained steady employ- 
ment. The S(p.iirc, who was the pi-ime cause of all. his 
trouble, sailed for a, foreign port, leaving all his bills unpaid. 
In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy 
back his old sho}), in which to tl is day he has steadily worked, 
with a vivid remembrance of the onsequence of spcculaliun. 



RETROSPECTION. 

He had drank deep and long from out 

The bacchanalian's bowl ; 
Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce 

The recess of his soul ; 
And now his footsteps turned to where 

His cliildhood's days were cast, 
And sat him 'neath an old oak tree 

To muse upon the past. 
Beneath its shade he oft had sat 

In days when he was young ; 
Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree, 

Its own deep shadows flung ; 
Beneath that tree his school-mates met, 

There joined in festive mirth, 
And not a place seemed half so dear 

To him, upon the earth. 

The sun had passed the horizon, 

Yet left a golden light 
Along a cloudless sky to mark 

A pathway for the night ; 
The moon was rising silently 

To reign a queen on high. 
To marslial all tl)e starry host. 

In heaven's blue canopy. 
In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which 

In youth he had been led 
By one who now rests quietly 

Upon earth's silent bed. ' 

And near it stood the church whose aisleg 

His youthful feet had trod ; 
23 



266 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Where his young mind first treasured in 
The promises of God. 

There troops of happy children ran 

With gayety along ; 
'T was agony for him to hear 

Their laughter and their song. 
For thoughts of youthful days came up 

And crowded on his brain, 
Till, crushed with woe unutterable, 

It sank beneath its pain. 
Pain ! not such as sickness brings, 

For that can be allayed. 
But pain from which a mortal shrinks 

Heart-stricken and dismayed : 
The body crushed beneath its woe 

May some deliverance find. 
But who on earth hath power to heal 

The agony of mind 7 

Memory ! it long had slept ; 

But now it woke to power. 
And brought before him all the past, 

From childhood's earliest hour. 
He saw himself in school-boy prime ; 

Then youth, its pleasures, cares, 
Came up before him, and he saw 

How cunningly the snares 
Were set to catch him as he ran 

In thoughtless haste along, 
To charm him with deceitful smiles, 

And with its siren song : 
He saw a seeming friendly hand 

Hold out the glittering wine. 
Without a thought that deep within 

A serpent's form did twine. 

Then manhood came ; then he did love, 
And with a worthy pride 

He led a cherished being to 
The altar as his bride ; 



RETROSPECTION. 267 

And mid the gay festivity 

Passed round the flowing wine, 
And friends drank, in the sparkling cup, 

" A health to thee and thine." 
A health ! , as the past came up, 

The wanderer's heart was stirred 
And as a madman he poured forth 

Deep curses on that word. 
For well he knew that " health " had been 

The poison of his life ; 
Had made the portion of his soul 

With countless sorrows rife. 

Six years passed by — a change had come, 

And what a change was that ! 
No more the comrades of his youth 

With him as comrades sat. 
Duties neglected, friends despised, 

Himself with naught to do, 
A mother dead with anguish, and 

A wife heart-broken too. 
Another yeai^ — and she whom he 

Had promised to protect 
Died in the midst of poverty, 

A victim of neglect. 
But ere she died slie bade him kneel 

Beside herself in prayer, 
And prayed to God that he would look 

In pity on them there : 

And bless her husband, whom she loved, 

And all the past forgive. 
And cause him, ere she died, begin 

A better life to live. 
She ceased to speak, — the husband rose, 

And, penitent, did say. 
While tears of deep contrition flowed, 

" I '11 dash the bowl away ! " 
A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face, 

She grasped his trembling hand, 



268 HALF llOUii STUllIKS. 

Gave it one prossnro, then her soul 

Passed to a better land. 
He bent to kiss lier palo cold lips, 

But they rotiirned it not ; 
And then he felt the loneliness 

And sorrow of his lot. 

It seemed as though his life had fled ; 

That all he called his own, 
When her pure spirit took its flight. 

Had with that 8])irit flown. 
She had been all in all to him, 

And deep hi^ heart was riven 
With anguish, as he tliought what woe 

lie her kind heart had given. 
But all was passed ; she lay in death, 

The last word had been said, 
The soul had left its prison-house, 

And up to heaven had fled ; 
But 't was a joy for him to know 

She smiled on him in love, 
And hope did whisper in his heart, 

" She '11 guard thee from above." 

He sat beneath that old oak tree. 

And children gathered round. 
And wondered why he wept, and asked 

What sorrow he had found. 
Then told he them this sad, sad tale, 

Which I have told to you ; 
They asked no more why he did weep. 

For they his sorrow knew. 
And soon their tears began to fall. 

And men came gathering round, 
Till quite a goodly company 

Beneath that tree was found. 
The wanderer told Jiis story o'er, 

Unvarnished, true and plain ; 
And on that night three-score of men 

Did pkdge them to al>stiiin. 



nature's fair daughter, beautiful water. 269 



NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER. 

^ Nature's I'air daughter, 

Beautiful water ! 
0, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth, 
Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth. 

Down from the mountain, 

Up from the fountain, 
Ever it comcth, bright, sparkling and clear, 
From the Creator, our pathway to cheer. 

Nobly appearing. 

O'er cliffs careering. 
Pouring impetuously on to the sea, 
Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free. 

See how it flashes 

As onward it dashes 
Over the pebbly bed of the brook. 
Singing in every sequestered nook. 

Now gently falling, 

As if 't were calling 
Spirits of beauty from forest and dell 
To welcome it on to grotto and cell. 

Beauteous and bright 

Gleams it in light, 
Then silently flows beneath the deep glade, 
Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade. 

Beautiful water ! 

Nature's fair daughter ! 
Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth, 
Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth. 

23* 



270 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP. 

Brightest shine the stars above 

\^ hen the night is darkest round us ; 

Those the friends we dearest love 

Who wore near when sorrow bound ub. 

When no clouds o'ercast our sky, 

When no evil doth attend us, 
Then will many gather nigh, 

Ever ready to befriend us. 

But when darkness shades our path, 
When misfortune hath its hour, 

When we lie beneath its wrath, 
Sojne will leave us to its power. 

Often have we seen at night, 

When the clouds have gathered o'er us, 
One lone star send forth its light. 

Marking out the path before us. 

Like that star some friendly eye 
Will beam on us in our sorrow : 

And, though clouded be our sky. 

We know there '11 be a better morrow. 

We know that all will not depart, 

That some will gather round to cheer us : 

Know we, in our inmost heart. 
Tried and faithful friends are near us. 

Brother, those who do not go 
May be deemed friends forever ; 

Love them, trust them, have them know 
Nothing can your friendship sever. 



WEEP NOT. 2T1 



WEEP NOT. 

Weep not, mother, 

For another 
Tie that bound thyself to earth 

Now is sundered, 

And is numbered 
With those of a heavenly birth. 

She hath left thee. 

God bereft thee 
Of thy dearest earthly friend ; 

Yet thou 'It meet her, 

Thou wilt greet her 
Where reunions have no end 

Her life's true sun 

Its course did run 
From morn unto meridian day ; 

And now at eve 

It takes its leave, 
Calmly passing hence away. 

Watch the spirit — 

'T will inherit 
Bliss which mortal cannot tell ; 

From another 

World, my mother. 
Angels whisper, " All is well." 

'Way with sadness ! 

There is gladness 
In a gathered spirit throng ; 

She, ascended. 

Trials ended. 
Joins their ranks and chants tueir song. 



272 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

"Weep not, mother, 
For another 
Tie doth bind thyself above ; 
Doubts are vanished, 
Sorrows bixnishetl, 
She ii happy whom you love. 



RTCTT AND P001{. 

"Gooi)-UY, lliiy, good-by," siiid (lei)r<i;o Groonvillo; 
and tho stage wound its way slowly up a sU*rp aai'ont, and 
Mas soon lost to view. 

" Well, well, ho has gone. (Jlad of it, hointiiy glad of it ! 
When will all those paupers bogono?'' said tho father of 
(Jeorgo, as ho enferoil the riehly-furnished parlor, and seated 
himself hesido an open window. 

"Why so glad.'" inipiired (leorg*, who listened Avith 
feelings of regret to the roninrk. 

" Why 7 " resinned the owner of a thousand acres ; " ask 
n\e no questions; I am glad, — that 's enough. You well know 
my mind on tlie suhject." 

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to reipiito 
his kindness'.' " 

"Kindness!" intenupti'd tlio old man; "say not 'twas 
kindness that prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 
't was his duty, — and of you should I not expect better 
things? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to becorao 
nc(|uainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth 
as Hay Bland'.'" 

Saying this, he arose and left tho room. 

George seated himself in tho chair vacated by his father. 
lie looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his pas- 
sionate remarks. "Well," thought he, "I was right; shall 
I allow the god of Maimuon to bind me down .' Of what uso 
are riches, unless, whilst wo enjoy, we can with them relieve 



274 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

the wants ani administer to the necessities of our fellow- 
"men ? Shall we hoard them up, or shall Ave not rather give 
with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt 
misfortune's scourging rod, — who are crushed, oppressed and 
trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neigh- 
bors 1 " In such a train of thought he indulged himself till 
the hour of dinner arrived. 

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray 
Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a 
young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that con- 
stitute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed with 
intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, 
the possession of which was a sure passport to the best of 
society. When the time came that George was to return 
home to the companionship of his friends, they found that 
ties of friendship bound them which could not be easily sev- 
ered, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville 
to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of 
his father. The week had passed away in a pleasant man- 
ner. The hour of parting had come and gone. The fare- 
well had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, 
when the conversation above mentioned passed between him 
and his father. 

The fiimily and connections of George were rich ; those 
of Ray Avere poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of 
pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conve- 
niences of life ; the latter encountered the rough waves of 
adversity, and was obliged to labor with assiduity, to sustain 
an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus Avere the two 
friends situated ; and old 'Theodore Greenville scorned the 
idea of having his son associate Avith a pauper, as he termed 
all those who Avere not the possessoi-s of a certain amount of 
money, — Avithout Avhich, in his opinion, none Avere worthy to 
associate with the rich. 



RICH AND POOR. 275 

" Ray is a pei-son not so much to be hated and sneered at 
as you would suppose," said George, breaking the silence, 
and addressing his father at the dinner-table. 

"George, I have set my heart against him," was the 
reply. 

"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are 
not open to conviction. If I can prove him Avorthy of your 
esteem and confidence, will you believe 7 " 

" That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to 
be a worthy young man ; but I discard the old saying that 
poverty is no disgrace ! I say that it is ; and one that can, 
if its victim choose, be washed away. Ray Bland is a pau- 
per, that 's my only charge against him ; and all the thun- 
dering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or 
move me an iota from the stand I have taken, — which is, 
now and ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my 
request that 3'^ou do the same." 

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversa- 
tion, inquiring of her father whetlier it was against his will 
for her to associate with the poor. 

"Precisely so,"' was the brief reply; and the conversation 
ended. The father left the house for a short walk, as was 
his custom, whilst George and Amelia retired to the parlor, 
and conversed, for a long time, upon the rash and unjust 
decision of their parent. The mutual attachment that existed 
between George and Ray was not looked upon with indiffer- 
ence by the sister of the former; and she de'-ermined upon 
using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the 
good will of her father ; she resolved, like a noble girl, to 
cherish a social and friendly, feeling toward the friend of her 
brother. He who knows the warmth of a sister's affection 
can imagine with what constancy she adhered to this deter- 
mination. The command of her father not to associate with 
the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she 



276 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

knew with what obstacles her brother would have to contend. 
She had a kind heart, that would not allow a fellow-being to 
want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means to' 
relieve him. 

" Do you think father was in earnest in what he said ^ " 
inquired Amelia. 

•' I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; 
•' but what led you to ask such a question ] " 

'•Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as 
he left the dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said 
something about the poor, and a trick he was about to play." 

" True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick ; 
liut it concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of 
father's tenants. Smith has been sick, and has not been 
able to procure funds with which to pay his rent, and father 
intends to engage a person to take out all the doors and win- 
dows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus be forced to 
leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise some 
plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus 
abruptly from the house." 

"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much 
rather have a trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. 
Can you, not propose some way by which we can prevent 
father from carrying out his intentions'? " 

"I will give you the money," replied- George, "if you 
will convey it to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to 
pay his rent. Recollect It must be carried in the night, and 
this night, as father expects to commence his operations to- 
morrow or next day. You know that I cannot go, as my 
time will be fully occupied in attending upon some important 
business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer 
more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, 
as she anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith , 



RICH AND POOR. 277 

and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded 
to his house. 

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick 
clouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her er- 
rand of mercy. As she drew near the lonely dwelling of 
Paul Smith, she perceived no light. She feared that he 
might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening 
at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and 
support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be 
sent. Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the 
money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, request- 
ing him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, 
and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. As 
she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother en- 
gaged in earnest conversation, — so earnest that she was not 
at first noticed. 

" Confound my tenants ! " said Mr. Greenville. " There 's 
old Paul Smith ; if to-morrow's sun does not witness him 
bringing my just dues, he shall leave, — yes, George, he 
sJuill leave ! I a"m no more to be trifled with and perplexed 
by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not pay shall 
toe the same mark. I "11 make them walk up, fodder or no 
fodder ! Ha, ha, ha ! old Smith shall know that I have some 
principle left, if I have passed my sixtieth year — that he 
shall ! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job." 

" You are always visiting your friends, George It seems 
as though all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for 
friends are very happy appendages to one's character. I pity 
the man who lives a friendless life. That 's the reason I 
have been such a friend to Smith, — but no longer ! " As 
he said this the wealthy landlord left the room. 

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, 
and both were thankful that they been ' instrumental in 
24 



278 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

relieving the wants of their poor neighbors. The next morn- 
ing, seated at the table, Mr. Greenville began again to ex- 
press his opinion respecting poor people in general, and Paul 
Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the door somewhat 
startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and gave 
information that a person was at the door who wished to see 
INIr. Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered 
liis tenant. Smith, who immediately told him that by sonje 
kind providence he Avas enabled to pay him his due, and 
hoped that in future he should be prompt in his payments. 

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed 
him a receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast- 
table. Nothing was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, 
as ho left the room, remarked "that he did not know but 
that Smith meant well enough." 

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard 
of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville 
came in and handed George a letter. Upon opening it, 
George found it to be Avritten by his friend Kay, informing 
him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for the kind 
attention he received during his visit, and expressing great 
pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him. 
George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they 
determined upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to 
bring over the kind feelings of their father to their young, 
but poor, friend. 

" It 's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, 
after a long conversation with the two ; ** the die is cast. I 
iiave resolved, and all the arguments you can bricg forward 
will not cause me to break my resolution." 

"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come 
when you will deeply regret forming such a resolution. Per- 
haps the sunshine of prosperity will not always illumine our 
path." 



RIOl AND POOR. 279 

"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, ''we 
will not allow our imagination to wander forth into the mys- 
tical regions of the future, or picture to ourselves scenes of 
wretchedness, if such await us. Flatter me not with the 
good intentions of Ray Bland." 

Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. 
Greenvillo torhore to mention in the presence of their father 
aught concerning their friend Hay Bland, or to excite the 
anger of the old gentleman by combating his prejudicegf 
against the poor. 

Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself 
beneatii the roof of his former friend, lie was received by 
George and Am(diji. with the cordiality that had ever marked 
his intercourse with them ; but the father was, if po.ssiblej 
more morose and sullen than usual. 

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause 
of this coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George 
would invariably turn the subject : and he forbore to ques- 
tion further, content with the happiness which he enjoyed in 
the society of those he held so dear. 

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that 
the three friends sat together. It was the last evening of his 
visit, and Ray expected not to return for a long time. Alone 
in his study, the father vented his indignation against pau- 
pers, which respect for his daughter's feelings only prevented 
in the presence of their visitor. He opened the casement. 
Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now and then a faint 
flash of lightning illumined the increasing darkness; and the 
far-oiF voice of the stocm was audible from the distance, each 
moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the storm 
was upon them. 

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each mo- 
ment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he 
strive to close his eyes in sleep. 



280 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of 
thunder more terrific than any that liad preceded it, startled 
the inmates of the mansion. The wind ho^vled terribly, and 
the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a 
fearful and terrific sound. 

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for 
it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended 
their con\^ersation. 

Amelia first broke the silence. " Something must be 
burning," exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was 
heard. All started up and rushed to the door ; and there, 
indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well ap- 
pall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. In- 
stantly the cause flashed upon them. Tiie house had been 
struck and set on fire by lightning. "I\Iy father! 0, my 
father!" shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. 
Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the 
aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger ; and ere Greorge 
Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through 
flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which 
he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow 
of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and 
bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the 
curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now 
the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great 
fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud 
man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted 
of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his 
arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. 
lie had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through 
which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to 
the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own ; and there, 
with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, sur- 
rounded by his children and neighboi-s, the old man learned 



RICH AND POOR. 281 

a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the 
dependence which every member of society has upon the 
whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even 
before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his 
past conduct ; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend 
or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville. 

In the course of a few months a new and spacious building 
was erected upon the site of the one destroyed ; and the neigh- 
bors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just 
over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and 
the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no dis- 
tinction, save in merit, between the J^ich and poor. 
24* 



THE llOMEWAKD BOUiXD. 

S:-owLY ho jvuwl the vetssol's whitened divk, 

While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long fast, 

Bi\)ught Ibrth ft-om luuutains well-nigh dry a tejir : 

For in imagination he could see 

Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport 

Upon a river's luvnk, quite near his home, 

Chasing the butterfly, whose gtmdy dress 

Lured him away, till, wearieii with the chase, 

Upon some mossy stone he s;vt him down ; 

Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade 

Of some tall oak, he bathed his jvHvhed brow ; 

Then up he sprang, rotrace<.l his wandering steps, 

Yet heoiUess ran, and could not leave his play. 

And since that day what scones had he pisstxl through, 

What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld! 

Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones, 

On fi-ojsen l>anks of Nova Zembla's coiist, 

Or the more fertile climes of Itjvly ; 

There, where the luscious gnvpe in fulness hangs, 

And fields of roses yield a rich jwrfumo ; 

'Mid orange-giwes whence sweetest odors rise, 

'Nejith bi-jvuches bnnieni\l with their fragrant fruit. 

Forth he had wandere^l. 

Mark the semblance now ! 
For much there is Wtween his cliildisli cvnirse 
Upon the river's bank and his later 
Wanderings. Then, ho chast\l the buttertly. Now 
Ilis inclination k\i to a pui-suit 
More lK)ld, adventurv>us, and far more grand. 
AmbitioQ filled his soul. Sometimes he ran 



THE POOR OF EATITH. 283 

In vain ; and so it was in luivliood's days ; 
And thus 'tin plainly sivn tliat oliildliood hours 
Aro but an indox of our future lifi'. 
And lil'o an indox of that yet to conio. 

As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scapo 
Forth from its liiddon cell, and trickle down 
The sailor's deep'y-furrowed eheek, to hatho 
Thoao roeollootions with the dow of Tiiought ! 

Some detMu it weak to weeji. Away the thought ! 

It is not weakness when Atl\'etion"s Ibunt 

O'crllows its borders, and to man displays 

The feelings that its powers oannot ooneeal. 

It is not weakness Vhen our feeble words 

Find ntteranee only in our flowing tears. 

Call not such language " weakness " ! Worlds may laugh, 

Yet know no joy like that which often Uowa 

lu silent tears. 

As nearer drew the sea;nan to his homo, 

As in the distance iirst ho saw the spot 

Where childhood's hours in happiness wei'O spent, 

His slow pace quickened to a liister walk, 

And, had ho had the power, ho 'd walked the waves, 

And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside, 

To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly 

Than wind and tido urged on his noblo bark. 



THE POOR OF EARTH. 

I 'ye often '.vonderod, as I 've sat 
Within mine own loved home, 

And thought of those, my fellow-men, 
Who housokss, houijless, roam ; 



284 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

That one upon this earth is found 

Whose heart good promptings smother ; 

And will not share his wealth with him 
Who is his poorer brother ! 

I 've often wondered, as I 've walked 

Amid life's busy throng, 
And seen my fellows who have been 

By Fortune helped along. 
That thoy who Ijask in its bright rays 

No tear of pity shed 
On him who doth no " fortune " seek, 

But asks a crust of bread ! 

I 've seen the gilded temple raised, 

The aspirant of fame 
Ascend the altar's sacred steps, 

To preach a Saviour's name, 
And wondered, as I stood and gazed 

At those rich-cushioned pews, 
Where he who bears the poor man's fate 

Might hear Salvation's news. 

I 've walked within the church-yard's walls, 

With holy dread and fear. 
And on its marble tablets read 

" None but the rich lie here." 
I 've wandered till I came upon 

A heap of moss-grown stones, 
And some one whispered in mine ear, 

" Here rest the poor man's bones." 

My spirit wandered on, until 
It left the scenes of earth ; 
Until I stood with those who 'd passed 

Through death, the second' birth. 
And I inquired, with holy awe, 
' " Who are they within this fold, 

Who seem to be Heaven's favorites, 
And wear those crowns of gold ? " 



IF z don't, others will. 285 

Then a being came unto me, 

One of angelic birth, 
And in most heavenly accents said, 

" Those were the poor of earth." 
Then from my dream I woke, but 

Will ne'er forget its worth ; 
For ever since that visiorr 

I have loved " the poor of earth." 

And when I see them toiling on 

To earn their daily bread. 
And dire oppression crush them down, 

Till every joy hath fled, — 
I mind me of that better world, 

And of that heavenly fold, 
"Where every crown of thorns gives place 

Unto a crown of gold. 



IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL. 

" If I don't make it, others will ; • 
So I 'II keep up my death-drugged stiU. 
Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood, 
And make it ))laze as blaze it should ; 
For I do heartily love to see 
The flames dance round it merrily ! 

" Hogsheads, you want? — well, order them made ; 

The maker will take his pay in trade. 

If, at the first, he will not consent, 

Treat him with wine till his wits are spent ; 

Then, when his reason is gone, you know 

Whate'er we want from his hands will flow'! 

" Ah, what do you say ? — ' that won't be fair ' ? 
You 're conscientious, I do declare ! 
I thought 30 once, when I was a boy. 
But since have been in this employ 



HALF HOUR STORIES. 

I 've practised it, and many a trick, 

By the advice of my friend. Old Nick. 

I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears 

With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers, 

And solemnly said to me, ' My Bill, 

If you don't do it, some others will ! ' 

" If I don't sell it, some others will ; 

So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I 'U fill. 

When trembling child, who is sent, shall come, 

Shivering with cold, and ask for rum 

(Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up) , 

I '11 measure it out in its broken cup ! 

'' Ah ! what do you say? — ' the child wants bread '? 

Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed • 

If the parents will send to me to buy, 

Do you think I 'd let the chance go by . 

To get me gain ? , I 'm no such fool ; 

That is not taught in the world's wide school ! 

" When the old man comes with nervous gait, 
Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate, 
Though children and wife and friends may meet, 
And me with tears and with sighs entreat 
Not to sell him that which will be his death, 
I '11 hear what the man with money saith ; 
If he asks for rum and shows the gold, 
I '11 deal it forth, and it shall be sold ! 

" Ah ! do you say, ' I should heed the cries 
Of weeping friends that around me rise ' ? 
May be you think so ; I tell you what, — 
I 've a rule which proves that I should not ; 
For, know you, though the poison kill, 
If I don't sell it, some others will ! " 



A strange fatality came on all men, 

Whc iiet upon a mountain's rocky side ; 

They had been sane and happy until then, 
But then on earth they wished not to abide. 



IF I don't, others will. 287 

The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm ; 

The soft winds blew, but them did not elate ; 
They seemed to think all joined to do them harm, 

And urge them onward to a dreadful fate. 
I did say " all men," yet there were a few 

Who kept their reason well,— yet, weak, what could they do? 

The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks, 

Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er ; 
From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks, 

And far below lay weltering m their gore. 
Ihe sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove 

To stay the furies ; but they could not do it. 
Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove, 

The men would spring the bounds or else break through it. 
And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped, 

Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped. 

One of the sane men was a great distiller 

And one sold liquors in a famous city ; 
And, by the way, one was an honest miller. 

Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity. 
This good " Honestus " spoke to them, and said, 

" You ^d better jump ; if you don't, others will." 
Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head. 

"That is no reason we ourselves should kill," 
Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed. 

As though they of the millei's meaning never dreamed. 



NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 

BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY 
OF THE STUBBS FAMILY. 

Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs were seated at the side of a red-hot 
cylinder stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black- 
and-white dog lay very composedly baking himself; on the 
other, an old brown cat was, in as undisturbed a manner, 
doing the same. The warmth that existed between them 
was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards each 
other, though the distance between them might lead one to 
suppose they had. 

In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose 
only existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship- 
carver, who, in his endeavors to breathe life into his block, 
came near breathing life out of himself, by sitting up late at 
night at his task. In the other hung a crook-necked squash,, 
festooned with wreaths of spider-webs. Above the mantel- 
piece was suspended a painting representing a feat performed 
by a certain dog, of destroying one hundred rats in eight 
minutes. The frame in which this gem of art was placed was 
once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was covered 
with the dust of ages. 

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when 
suddenly the door flew open, and their son entered with black- 
ened eyes, bloody hands, bruised face and dirty clothes, the 
most belligerent-looking creature this side of the ''Rio 
Grande." 



NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 289 

" My voice a'nt siill for war, it 's loud for war," he said, 
as, with a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the 
dog, who clenched it between his teeth, shook it nearly to 
tatters, and then passed it over to the cat. 

"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. 
"Always in trouble, — fights and broils seem to be your 
element I don't know, Jake, what will become of you, 
if you go on at this rate. What sayjou, father? " 

Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first 
at his hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that 
Jake was an ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, 
and never would come to anything, unless to a rope's end. 

" 0, how can you talk so ? " said his wife. " You know it 'a 
nat'ral." 

" Nat'ral ! " shouted the father ; "then it's ten times 
worse — the harder then to rid him of his quarrelsome 
habits. But I 've an idea," said he, his face brightening up 
at the thought, as though he had clenched and made it fast 
and sure. 

The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, 
who had retired into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened 
up, and looked at his father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch 
brightened up also ; but not of its own free will, for the force 
with which Mr. Stubbs brought his hand in contact with the 
table caused the dirty veil to fall from the bust-er^s face. 

" What is it ? " inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation. 

" Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, 
ire '11 make hitn an editor.^' 

The old lady inquired what that was ; and, being informed, 
expressed doubts as to his ability. 

" Why," said she, " he cannot write distinctly." 

"What of that? — let him write with the scissors and 
paste-pot. Let him learn ; many know a great deal more 
after having learned." 
25 



290 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

" But he must have some originality in his paper.' said 
Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general 
opinion that " any one can edit a paper." 

"Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; " he '11 conduct 
anything he takes hold of, rather than have that conduct 
him. I '11 tell you what, old woman, Jake shall be an edi- 
tor, whether he can write a line of editorial or not. Jake, 
come here." 

Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at 
the proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in 
his opinion, he could conduct a paper with ability, original- 
ity and success, replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that 
he "could n't do anything else," at the same time clench- 
ing his fist, as though to convince his sire that he cotild da 
something else, notwithstanding. 

" As I have never asked you any question relative to pub- 
lic affairs, and as the people of this generation are getting to 
be wise, I deem it right that I should ask you a few ques- 
tions before endeavoring to obtain a situation. Now, Jake 
who is the President of the United States? " 

" General George Washington," replied the intelligent 
lad, or rather young man ; for, though he indulged in many 
boyish tricks, he was about twenty years of age, a short, 
dull-looking member of the " great unwashed." The father 
intimated that he was mistaken ; the son persisted in saying 
that he was not. 

" Never mind the catechizer," said Jake ; " I '11 conduct 
a newspaper, I will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the 
day I could n't conduct anything." 

"That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; ' he possesses more 
talent than I was aware of; he '11 make an editor." 

"An' he shall ^''^ said the father, resolutely. 

The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and 
Mrs. Stubbs to retire, and they did so. No sooner had tliey 



NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 291 

left than their dutiful son mounted the table, and, taking 
down the fancy bust, pulled the dog by the tail to awake 
him, and set him barking at it. The cat must have h^r part 
in the tragedy, so Jake thought ; and, pulling her by the 
tail, she was soon on the field of action. 

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said 
he ; and, as dog and cat had been through the same perform- 
ance before, they acted their parts in manner suiting. The 
dog barked, the cat snapped and snarled, and Jake Stubbs 
stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight. 



It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures 
Mr. Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for 
Jake. 

His endeavors to find a situation sucb as he wanted were, 
for a long time, inefiectual. At length he blundered into a 
small printing-ofiice, where three men and a boy were test- 
ing the merits of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of 
root beer. 

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he men- 
tioned his errand, one of the men — a tall fellow, with check 
shirt and green apron — said that he had, for a long time, 
contemplated starting a paper, but, as he was not capable of 
editing one, he had not carried out his intention. The prin- 
cipal reason why he had not published was, he was poor ; 
business had not prospered in his hands, and an outlay of 
two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and con- 
tinue the paper. 

' ' Very well, ' ' replied Mr. Stubbs, ' ' that is a large sum ; but, 
if there is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of 
loaning it to you, for the sake of getting my talented son into 
business." 

"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; 
and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange 



292 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

as it may seem to the cautious reader, lie wrote a check for 
the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica 
as security ; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to 
brush up the boy, for he was an editor. 

***** 

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three 
pair of stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of 
"The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't 
got black eyes now ; all the blackness of his person, if not 
of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are 
black Avith ink. Not all settled, for a few daubs of the 
"blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been called, 
were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there fcom 
his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, 
vainly endeavoring to- bring up thoughts from the mighty 
depths of his intellect, — so fnighty^ in fact, that his thoughts 
were kept there, and refused to come up. 

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, 
when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty 
upon the assistant editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved 
upon writing a masterly article as a leader. 

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him 
for nearly an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea 
would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go 
into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea 
had flown, and the world was the loser. Then he threw 
himself back into his chair, — thought, thought, thought. At 
length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perse- 
verance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, 
though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on 
very fust. He Avas able to pen a few words, and wrote " The 
war with Mexico — " 

Well, he had got so far ; that was very original, and if 
he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of 



NOT MADE roil AX EDITOR. 293 

talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the 
little word are. "The war with Mexico are." Ten min- 
utes more of steady thought, and three more words brought 
him to a full stop. " The war with Mexico are a indisputa- 
ble fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close 
observer could have seen his head expand with the eflfort. 

" Copy, sir, copy ! " shouted the printer's boy, as he stood 
with his arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his 
head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire 
and live on a pension. 

"Copy what]"' inquired the editor, who began to feel 
indignant, imagining that the pul)li.sher had seen his labor 
to write an article, and had sent him word to cojjy from 
some paper. 

"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 
'tis original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, 
with news up to this date." 

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., 
and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors 
were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit 
engrave his name upon the scroll of fame. 

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came 
the same youth, shouting " Copy, sir, co'py ! " 

"Copy what?" sliouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's 
shirt-sleeve. " Tell me what you want copied ! tell me, sir, 
or I will shake your interiors out of you — '' 

The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been 
received at the corners of the streets. He had never taken 
lessons of a professor, but he had practised upon a number of 
urchins smaller than himself, and had become a thoroughly 
proficient and expert pugilist. 

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, 
not even by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and 
said, 

25* 



294 HALF HOUK STORIES. 

" I want copy ; that 's a civil tiuestion, — I want a civil 
answer." 

Juke's organ of combativcncss became enlarged. He 
sjn-ang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would 
hiivc thrown him down stairs, had not a movement the boy 
made prevented him. 

Bill's arms were loose, and, ncaring the table, he took 
the inkstand and dashed the contents into the face of his 
a.s.sailaiit. 

" Murder ! " shouted the editor. 

"Copy!" slioutcd the boy; and such a rumpus was 
created, that up came Mr. Pica, saying that the building 
v.iis so shaken that an article in type on the subject of 
" Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself into " pi." 

The two belligerents were parted ; the editor and Master 
liill Bite stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter 
but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened 
witli ink, inquired the cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. 
J'ica, not recognizing in the indignant inc^uirer the father of 
the "talented editor," turned suddenly about and struck 
him a blow in the face, that displaced his spectacles, 
knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made 
the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the 
ceiling. 

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flow at the boy, 
and gave him "copy" of a very impressive kind. 

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bot- 
tles, wliilst up from the printing-ofHcc came the inmates, to 
loarn the cause of the disturbance. 

A coujjle of police-officers passing at the time, hearing 
the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, 
senior, and the other Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them oflf to 
the lock-up. 



NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR. 295 

This afiair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." 
The first number never made its appearance. 

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went 
into the country for his health, and has not been heard from 
since. 

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five 
dollars each ; and when thej reached home and related to 
Mrs. Stubbs the facts in the case, she took off her specta- 
cles, and, after a few moments' sober thought, came to the 
sage conclusion that her son Jake was not made for au 
editor. 



IlEJE'S TO THE HEART THAT 'SEVER BRIGHT. 

Here 's to a heart that 's ever bright, 

Whatever may betide it, 
Though fortune may not smile aright. 

And evil is beside it ; 
That lets the vrorld go smiling on, 

But, when it leans to sadness. 
Will cheer the heart of every one 

With its bright smile of gladness ! 

A fig for those who always sigh 

And fear an ill to-morrow ; 
Who, when they have no troubles nigh, 

Will countless evils borrow ; 
Who poison every cup of joy, 

By throwing in a bramble ; 
And every hour of time employ 

In a vexatious scramble. 

What thougli the heart be sometimes sad ! 

'T is better not to show it ; 
'T will only chill a heart that 's glad, 

If it should chance to know it. 
So, cheer thee up if evil 's nigh. 

Droop not beneath thy sadness ; 
If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh, 

'T will leave thy heart to gladness. 



THE RECOMPENSE OE GOODNESS. 297 



MORNING BEAUTY. 

Brightly now on every hill 

The sun's first rays are beaming, 
-^And dew-drops on each blade of grass 

Are in their beauty gleaming. 
O'er every hill and every vale 

The huntsman's horn is sounding, 
And gayly o"er each brook and fence 

His noble steed is bounding. 

There 's beauty in the glorious sun 

When high mid heaven 'tis shining. 
There 's beauty, in the forest oak 

When vines are round it twining ; 
There 's beauty in each flower that blooms. 

Each star whose light is glancing 
From heaven to earth, as on apace 

'T is noiselessly advancing. 

Beauties are all around thy path, 

And gloriously they 're shining ; 
Nature hath placed them everywhere. 

To guard men from repining. 
Yet 'mong them all there 's naught more fair, 

This beauteous earth adorning. 
Than the bright beauty gathering round 

Tlie early hours of morning. 



THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS. 

When our hours shall all be numbered, 

And the time shall come to die, 
When the tear that long hath slumbered 

Sparkles in the watcher's eye. 



z98 HA.LF HOUR STORIES. 

Shall wc not look back with pleasure 
To the hour when some lone heart, 

Of our soul's abundant treasure, 
From our bounty took a part ? 

"Vi'lien tlie Iiand of death is resting 

On tlio friend we most do love, 
And the spirit fast is liasting 

To its holy homo above, 
Then the memory of each favor 

Wo have given Avill to us be 
Like a full and holy savor, 

Bearing blessings rich and free 

0, then, brother, let thy labor 

Be to do good while you live, 
And to every friend and neighbor 

Some kind word and sweet smile gif9. 
Do it, all thy soul revealing. 

And witliin your soul you '11 know 
How one look of kindly feeling 

Cause the tides of love to flow. 



BRIDAL SONGS. 

TO TUE WIFE. 

Let a smile illume thy face, 
In tliy joyous hours ; 

Look of sympathy bo thine. 
When the darkness lowers. 

He thou lovest movast where 
Many trials meet him ; 

Waiting be when ho retui'us. 
Lovingly to greet him. 



BRIDAL SONGS. 299 

Though without the world be cold, 

Be it thy endeavor 
That within thy home is known 

Happiness forever. 



TO THE HUSBAND. 

Whatsoever trials rise, 
Tempting thee to falter, 

Ne'er forget the solemn vows 
Taken at the altar. 

In thy hours of direst grief, 
As in those of gladness, 

Minister to her you love. 
Dissipate her sadness. 

Be to cheer, to bless", .to love, 
Always your endeavor ; 

Write upon your heart of hearts 
Faithfulness forever. 



THE JUG AFLOAT. 

" What I tell thee, captain, is sober truth. If -Jiee 
Avishes to prosper, thee must not allow thj sailors grog, lest, 
uhen at sea, thej become tipsy, and thy ship, running ujjon 
hidden rocks, shall be lost ; or else, when at the mast-head, 
giddiness come upon them, and, falling, thy crew shall num- 
ber one less." 

Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of 
Penn. Captain Marlin had been for many days and nights 
considering whether it were best to carry a complement of 
wine for himself and friends, and grog for his crew. He 
had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked his opinion, 
which he gave as above ; yet Captain Marlin seemed unde- 
termined. He felt it to he an important question, and he 
desired to come to a right conclusion. 

They had been passing up Broadway; had reached the 
Trinity, crossing over towards Wall-street. Simon, with his 
usual gravity, raised his hand, and, pointing to the towering 
steeple of the splendid edifice, said : 

" If thou, neiglibor, desired to ascend yonder spire, think- 
est thou thou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog '? " 

" Certainly not," replied Captain Marlin. 

"Then," continued the Quaker, '-do not take it to sea 
with thee : for thou or thy men mayest be called to a spot 
as high as yonder pinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it." 

The two walked down Wall-street without a word from 
either, till, reaching a shipping-ofiice. Captain Marlin re- 



THE JUG AFLOAT. 301 

•narked that he had business within. The Quaker very 
politely bowed, and bade him take heed to good counsel, and 
good-day. 

The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, read- 
ing the shipping news in the Journal. 

" Did you know," said he, as his captain entered, '' that 
Parvalance & Co. have lost their ship, ' The Dey of Algiers, ' 
an<l none were* saved but the cabin-boy, and he half dead 
when found 1 " 

■• Indeed not ; when — where — how happened it \ " in- 
quired Captain Marlin, in some haste. 

" On a voyage from Canton, with a rich cargo of silks, 
satins, teas, &c. The hoy says that the men had drank rather 
too much, and were stupidly drunk, — but fudge ! Captain 
Marlin, you know enough to know that no man would drink 
too much at sea. He would be sure to keep at a good distance 
from a state of intoxication, being aware that much was 
intrusted to his care which he could not well manage whilst 
in such a state." 

"Perhaps so," said Captain Marlin, doubtingly. "Mr. 
Granton, this touches a question I have been for days con- 
sidering. It is, whether I shall allow my men grog." 

" Of course, of course ! " answered the ship-owner; "nothing 
so good for them round the Cape. You know the winds there, 
rather tough gales and heavy seas. Cold water there, Mr. 
Marlin ! Why, rather give them hot coffee with ice crumbled 
in it, or carry out a cask of ice-cream to refresh thenj ! Man 
alive, do you think they could live on such vapor ? You 
t^dk like one who never went to sea, unless to see a cattle- 
show." 

Captain Marlin could not refrain from laughing at such 

reasoning, yet was more than half inclined to favor it. He 

was fond of his wine, and being, as such folks generally are, 

of a good disposition, he wished W see all men enjoy them- 

26 



802 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

selves, especially when at sea. He wished evil to no man, 
and had h6 thought that liquor might injure any of his crew, 
he would not that morning, in that oiEce, have come to the 
conclusion to have it on board the " Tangus." 

CHAPTER II. 

On a bright, clear morning, a deeply-freighted ship started 
from a New York slip; a fair wind bore it swiftly down 
the bay, and a few minutes' sail found it far from sight of 
the metropolis of the Union. Friends had taken the last 
glimpse of friends, the last interchange of kindly feelings 
had passed, and deep waters now separated them. It was 
the " Tangus," Robert Marlin captain, with a picked crew, 
and bound for the coast of Sumatra. Simon Prim shook 
his head, as he with others turned and walked home. '"T is 
a pity men will not see evil and flee from it," said he, and 
he pulled his straight coat-collar up, and thrust his hands 
more deeply than ever into his pockets. He was a little 
startled by a light tap upon the shoulder, and quite a happy 
voice exclaiming, " Why, Mr. Prim, how are you 1 " 

" Verily, neighbor, thou didst move me; but I was think- 
ing so deeply of Captain Marlin and his success, that no 
wonder thy light touch should do so." 

" But what of him, Prim?" 

"His ship, the Tangus, has just left, bound on a long 
voyage, and with a quantity of deadly poison on board, with 
which to t-efresh the crew. I tell thee, neighbor, I have 
fears for the result. The jug may possibly stand still when 
on land, but when it 's afloat it 's rather unsteady." 

" Very true, but you seem to express unusual anxiety in 
regard to Captain Marlin and his good ship ; thousands have 
been just as imprudent." 

" But not in these days of light and knowledge, friend. 
There have been enough sad examples to warn men not to 



THE JUG AFLOAT. 303 

trifle on such subjects. Twenty years ago I drank. We 
had our whiskey at our funerals and our weddings. I have 
seen chief mourners staggering over the grave, and the bride- 
groom half drunk at the altar ; but times are changed now, 
and thank God for the good that has been effected by this 
reformation ! " 

"You speak true, Simon; and I wonder Captain Marlin 
could, if he considered the evils brought about by intoxicat- 
ing drink, carry it to sea with him." 

" I told liim all as I tell it to thee, friend Jones. He 
askud my opinion, and I gave it him, yet it seems he thought 
little of it. Good-day, neighbor; I have business with a 
friend at the ' Croton,' good-day;" and, saying this, Mr. 
Prim walked up a bye street. 

Jones walked on, and thought considerable of the Quaker's 
last words. His mind that day continually ran upon the 
subject. Indeed, he seemed unable to think of anything else 
but of a jug afloat, and at night spoke of it to his wife. 

The wife of Captain Marlin had that day called upon Mrs. 
Jones, and, although her husband had scarcely got out of 
sight, looked with pleasure to the day of his return, and 
already anticipated the joyous occasion. There is as much 
pleasure in anticipation as in realization, it is often said, and 
there- is much truth in the saying. We enjoy the thought 
of the near approach of some wished for day, but when it 
arrives we seem to have enjoyed it all before it came. 

Mrs. Jones was far from thinking it wa-ong in Captain 
Marlin that he carried liquor with him on his voyage, and 
gave it as her opinion that the vessel was as safe as it could 
possibly be without it. 

" Remember what I say, that is a doomed ship," said Mr 
Jones,' after some conversation on the subject. 

" You are no prophet, my dear," said his wife, "neither 
am I a prophetess ; but I will predict a pleasant voyage and 



304 HALF UOUR STORIES. 

safe return to the Tangus." With such opposite sentimenta 
expressed, they retired. 

CHAPTER III. 

Insensible to all that is beautiful in nature, and grand and 
majestic in the works of creation, must the heart of that man 
bo who can see no beauty, grandeur, or majesty, in the 
mighty abyss of waters, rolling on in their strength — now 
towering like some vast mountain, and piling wave upon wave, 
till, like pyramids dancing on pyramids, their tops seem to 
reach the sky ; then sinking as deep as it had before risen, 
and again mounting up to heaven. There 's beauty in such 
a scene, and no less when, calm and unruffled, the setting sun 
sinks beneath the horizon, and for miles and miles leaves its 
long, glistening track upon the unmoved waters. 

'T was so when the crew of the " Tangus " were assembled 
upon the deck of that noble ship. The day previous had 
been one of hard labor ; the vessel had bravely withstood the 
storm, and seemed now to be resting after the contest. Not 
a ripple was to be seen. Far as the eye could reach, was 
seen the same beautiful stillness. So with the crew ; they 
were resting, though not in drowsy slumberings. 

" I say what. Bill," remarked one, "'An honest man's 
the noblest work of God,' somebody says, and that 's our 
captain, every inch, from stem to stern, as honest as Quaker 
Prim, of Gotham." 

" Ay, ay. Jack," said another; " and did you hear how 
that same Prim tried to induce Captain Marlin to deprive us 
of our rights 7 " 

" Grog, you mean ? " 

-"Ay, ay." / 

"No; but how was it7 " 



THE JUG AFLOAT. 805 

" Arrah, the dirty spalpeen he was, if he was afther a 
trying for to do that — the divil — " 

'• Will Mr. McFusee wait ? By the way, Jack, he, Prim, 
got him by the button, and began to pour into his ears a 
long tirade against a man's enjoying himself, and, by the aid 
of thee, thy, and thou, half convinced the old fellow that he 
must give up all, and live on ice-water and ship-bread." 
■ "Did?" 

" Ay, ay, you know Captain Marlin. He always looks at 
both sides, then balances both, as it were, on the point of a 
needle, and decides, as Squire Saltfish used to say, "cording 
to law and evidence." 

" By the powers, he 's a man, ivery inch, from the crown 
of his hat to the soles of his shoes, he is." 

"Mr. McFusee, laill you keep still?" said Mr. Boy den, 
the narrator. Mr. McFusee signified that he would. 

" Well, he balanced this question, and the evidence against 
flew up as 't were a feather ; but down went the evidence for, 
and he concluded to deal every man his grog in due season." 

" That's the captain, all over," remarked Jack. 

As we before said, their labors the day previous were great, 
and, as a dead calm had set in, and the vessel did not even 
float lazily along, but remained almost motionless, — not like 
a thing of life, but like a thing lifeless, — the captain ordered 
the crew each a can of liquor, and now they sat, each with 
his measure of grog, relating stories of the past, and surmises 
of the future. 

" I tell you what," said Jack Paragon, " these temperance 
folks are the most foolish set of reformers myself in particu- 
lar, and the United States, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico, 
in general, ever saw." 

"Even so," remarked Mr. Boyden, ' but they do some good. 
'Give the devil his due,' is an old saw, but none the less 
true for that. There 's Peter Porper, once a regular soaker, 
26* 



306 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

always said his 'plaints were roomatic, — rum-attic, I reckon, 
however, for he used to live up twelve pairs of stairs, — he and 
the man in the moon were next-door neighbors ; they used to 
smoke together, and the jolly times they passed were never 
recorded,' for there were no newpapers in those dark ages, 
and the people were as ignorant as ciows. Well, one of these 
ten^poj-ance folks got hold of him, and the next I saw of him 
he,)|as the pet of the nation ; loved by the men, caressed by 
the women — silver pitchers given him by the former, and 
broadcloth cloaks by the latter." 

"No selfish motives in keeping temperate ! " said Jack 
Rowlin, ironically. 

" Can't say ; but liquor never did me harm. When I find 
it does, I will leave off'." 

"That's the doctrine of Father Neptune — drink and 
enjoy life." 

"Every man to his post!" shouted the captain, as he 
approached from the quarter-deck. Quick to obey, they were 
where they were commanded in an instant, each with his tin 
can half filled with liquor. Captain Marlin, seeing this, 
ordered them to drink their grog or throw it overboard ; they 
chose the former mode of disposing of it, and threw their 
empty cans at the cook. 

In the distance a small black speck was descried, 

CEAPTER IV. 

The sun had set in clouds. The heavens were hung in 
darkness. Ever and anon a peal of thunder echoed above, 
a flash of vivid lightning illumed the waters, and far as eye 
could see the waters tossed high their whitened crests. The 
winds blew stormy, and now heavy drops of rain fell upon the 
deck of the " Tangus." " Every man to his duty ! " shouted 
the captain ; but the captain's voice was not obeyed. 



THE JUG AFLOAT. SOT 

Objects at two feet distance could not be seen. Louder 
that voice was heard. " Every man to his duty, — save the 
shj|j ! " 
' " Captain, what is my duty ? " inquired the cook. 

• • I appoint you under officer. Search for the men, and, if 
they are not all washed over, tell them I order them to work. 
If they do not know it, tell them the ship's in danger,, and 
they must work.'" 

The storm was fast increasing, till, at length, instead of 
blackness, one sheet of livid flame clothed the heavens above. 
Now all could be seen, and the captain busied himself. 
But two of the crew were to be seen, and they lay as senseless 
as logs. They heeded not the rage of the storm. The ter- 
rific peals of thunder awoke them not — they were dead 
drunk ! 

By the time the storm commenced, the liquor they had 
drank began to have its effect. Four of the crew, who were 
usually wide awake — that is, uncommonly lively — when 
intoxicated, had unfortunately fell overboard, and were lost. 

The captain had now food for reflection, but the time and 
place were not for such musings. 

He endeavored to arouse them, but in vain ; so, with the 
aid of the only sober man aboard besides himself, he conveyed 
them to a place of safety. In the mean time the ship strained 
in. every joint, and he momentarily expected to find himself 
standing on its wreck. 

The waves washed the deck, and everything movable, 
cook-house and all, went by the board. The only hope of 
safety was in cutting away the masts, and to this task they 
diligently applied themselves. All night the captain and 
cook worked hard, and when morning came they found the 
storm abating. Soon the sun shone in its brightness ; but 
what a scene did its light reveal ! The once stately ship 



308 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

dismasted ; four men, including the mate of the vessel, lost, 
and two lying insensible in the cabin. 

It was not strange that the question came home to the 
mind of Captain Marlin, with force, "Is it right to carry 
liquor for i ship's crew 7 " He need ask the opinion of no 
one ; he could find an answer in the scene around him. 

CHAPTER V. 

"Then thy ship has put in for repairs?" said Simon 
Prim, as he entered Gran ton & Co.'s office, on Wall-street. 

" What ? " exclaimed Mr. Granton, who had heard nothing 
of the matter. Simon, pulling a paper from his pocket, read : 

"Loss OF Life at Sea. — By a passenger in the ' Sul- 
tan,' from , we are informed that the ship 'Tangus,' from 

this port, bound to Sumatra, and owned by Messrs. Gran- 
ton & Co., of this city, put in at that place in a dismasted 
■•ondition. 

"The 'Tangus' had been three weeks out, when, in a gale, 
four men were washed overboard. The remainder of her crew 
being insensible, and the whole duty falling upon the captain 
and cook, they with great difficulty managed the ship. It is 
rumored that all were intoxicated. This is the seventh case 
of loss at sea, caused by intemperance, within four months. 
When will men become wise, and awake to their own interests 
on this topic? " 

The ship-owner rapidly paced his office. " Can it be?" 
said he to himself ' ' Can it be ? " 

"Give thyself no trouble, friend," said Prim; " what is 
done is done, and can't be undone. Thy ship is not lost, 
and things are not so bad as they might be. Look to the 
future, and mourn not over the past ; and remember that it is 
srery dangerous to have a jug afloat." 

These few words somewhat quieted him, yet not wholly. 



THE JUG AFLOAT. ' 309 

At this moment tlie wife of Captain Marlin entered. Having 
heard of the news, she came to learn all that was known 
respecting it. 

" Madam," said he, after relating all he knew, " my mind 
is changed on the question we some time since discussed. 
Yes, madam, my mind is changed, and from this hour I 
will do all I can to exterminate the practice of carrying grog 
to sea for the crew. And I tell thee what," he continued, 
turning to friend Prim, who stood near by, "I tell thee what, 
thee was right in thy predictions ; and, though it has been a 
dear lesson to me, I have learned from it that it is poor policy 
that puts a jug afloat." 



GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MI.^ERY, 

Would yc who live in palace halla 

With servants round to wait, 
Know aught of him who, craving, falls 

Before thine outer gate ? 
Come with ine when the piercing blast 

Is whii-itling wild and free, 
When muflled forms are hurrying past, 

And theri his portion see. 

Come with me tlirough the narrow lanes 

To dwellings dark and damp. 
Where poor men strive to ease their pains ; 

Where, by a feeble lamp, 
The wearied, widowed mother long 

Doth busy needle ply, 
Wliilst at lier feet her children throng, 

And for a morsel cry. 

Come witli me thou in such an hour. 

To such a place, and see 
That lie wlio gave tlieo wealth gave power 

To stay such misery ! 
Come with me, — nor with empty hand 

Ope thou tlie poor man's door ; 
Come with the produce of thy land, 

And thou shalt gather more 



M 



THE SPIRIT OF MAN. 311 



THE SPIRIT OF MAN. 

Ye cannot bind the spirit down ; 

It is a thing as free 
As the albutross-bird that wings 

Its wild course o'er the sea. 

Go, hind the liglitning, guide the sun, 

Chain comets, if you can ; 
But seek not with thy puny strength 

To bind the soul of man. 

■ Though all the powers of earth combine, 
And all their strength enroll, 
To bind man's body as they will, 
They cannot bind his soul. 

No power on earth can hold it down. 

Or bid it hither stay. 
As up to heaven with rapid course 

It tireless wings its way. 

Time is too limited for it, 

And earth is not its clime ; 
It cannot live whore sound the words, 

" There is an end to time." 

It seeks an endless, boundless sf iere, 

In which to freely roam ; 
Eternity its course of life, 

Infinity its home. 

There, there will it forever live ; 

And there, a spirit free, 
'T will range, though earth may pass away, 

And Time no longer l>e. 



812 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



PAUSE AND THINK. 

! now many souls arc sorrowing 

In this sunlit world, to-day, 
Because Wrouff, lioavcn's livery borrowing, 

Loadutli trusting souls astray ; 
Because men, all thouglitloss rushing, 

Dance along on Error's brink, 
And, the voice of conscience hushing, 

Will not for a moment think ! 

'Tin th(; la(;k of tiiouji;iit that Ijringetli 

Man to wliere lie neeils relief; 
'T is tlie lack of tliought that wringeth 

All his inner s<;lf with grief. 
Would he give a moment's tliinking 

Ere his every step is made, 
lie would not from light be shrinking, 

<j!ro])ing on in Error's shade ! 

Tliink, immortal ! tliou art treading 

On a path laid thick witli snares. 
Whore miscliievous minds arc spreading 

Nets to catch thee unawares. 
Pause and think ! the next step taken 

May be that wliicli leads to death ; 
Rouse thee ! let thy spirit waken ; 

List to, heed the word it saith ! 

Think, ere thou consent to squander , 

Aught of time in useless mirth ; 
Think, ere thou consent to wander, 

Disregarding heaven-winged truth. 
When the wine in beauty sliincth. 

When tiie tiunpter bids thee drink, 
Ero to toucli thy liand inclineth. 

Bo thou cautious — pause and think ! 



PAUSE AND THINK. 313 

Think, whatever act thou doest ; 

Think, whatever word is Hpoke ; 
Else the heart of friend the truest 

May be by thee, thoughtless, broke. 
IIow much grief had Iteen prevented, 

If man ne'er had sought tf> shrink 
From the right : — to naught consented, 

Until he had paused to think ! 

27 



LITTLE NELLY. 

Matilda was a fnshionable girl, — a young lady, perhaps, 
would be the more respectable name by which to call her. She 
had been reared in affluence. She had never known a want. 
She had had wants, but she did not know it. She had 
wanted many things that make a lady'a life indeed a life. 
But Matilda never dreamt of such things. 

It was n't fashionable to love the outcast, and therefore 
she bestowed no pitying loOk on them. It was n't fashion- 
able to give a few pennies even to a poor, lame orphan girl 
in the street. So she pretended not to have noticed the plea 
of little Nelly, who had accosted her during her morning 
rambles. 

" Little Nelly." I remember how she looked when at 
twilight she sat down on a curb-stone to count the money. 
She looked sorrowful. She was, indeed, worthy of pity ; 
but little she got. The crowd went hurrying, hustling on ; 
few thoughts came down to little Nelly, on the curb-stone. 
It had been a gala day. Red flags had flaunted on high 
poles, and there had been a great noise of drums and fifes, 
and everybody had seemed happy. Why, then, should sor- 
row come, with its dark lantern, and look in the face of this 
little girl ? 

I will tell you. | 

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed • 
in Mexico. She lived in one small room in a secluded part 
of the city, and by means of her needle, and such assistance 



LITTLE NELLY, 815 

as Avas given to her daughter, who diligently walked the 
streets, selling apples, she managed to live in a style which 
she denominated " comfortable." Thus, for upwards of one 
year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many 
blessings. 

But sicKness came ; not severe, but of that kind that bears 
its victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. 
She did not wish, to do much ; but she sat day by day, yea, 
night by night often, and diligently pursued the avocation 
that brought her daily bread. 

Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she 
called her daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her 
own, said : 

" Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard 
the guns fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy 
children, this morning, before you arose. I watched you as 
you lay listening to all these, and I asked myself, Will my 
little Nelly be happy ? and I thought I heard my mother's 
voice ; — - she difed long, long ago, but I thought I heard her 
voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be happy soon ;' 
and I wept, for I could not help it. 

" But I 've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I 'm 
much better this morning, and that, if you can get twenty- 
five cents to-day, Ave Avill have a happy time to-night." 

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a 
shadow came over her face ; for she could not comprehend 
the meaning of her mother when she said she was " better," 
for she looked more feeble than she had ever seen her since 
the news of how her father was shot in the face at Monterey 
was told her. 

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, 0, 
it was very hard ; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, 
having cleared the things away, took her little basket, and 
her mother's purse, and went out. 



816 HALF HOUR STOniES. 

It was, indeed, a liappy day without. Tlieie was jjy 
depicted on every countenance, and tiie general happiness 
infused some of its spirit into the lieart of our little trader. 

She seemed almost lost in the great crowd ; and there were 
so many dealers about, and so many that presented greater 
attractions in tlie display of their stock, that few bought of 
little Nelly. 

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, 
when she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose 
liand was prominently displayed a bead purse, through the 
interstices of which the gold and silver glistened. 

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were 
wrought, through which no coin glistened, — she held it up, 
and ventured to ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the 
lady. But not a penny for little Nelly. Not even a look 
recognized her appeal, but costly, flowing robes rushed by, 
and nearly prostrated her ; they did force her from the side- 
walk into the gutter. 

Go on, ye proud and selfish one ! Go, bend the knee to 
Fashion's altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit ! 
]3e.stow no pitying glance on honest foverty ; no helpinghand 
to the weak and falling ! There is a law which God hath 
written on all his woiks, proclaiming justice, and giving unto 
all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, and heed not that 
little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so without 
asking of that law its just requital. 

Nelly walked on. She. niingied again with the great mass, 
and twilight came. It was then that she sat down, as I 
have before stated, to count her money. She had but thir- 
teen cents. All day she had sought to dispose of her stock, 
that siie might carry to her rnother the sum named, with 
wliieh to have a hnppy time at home. And now the day had 
gone; the uiglit was drawing its great shadowy cloak about 



LITTLE NELLY. 317 

the earth, and Nelly had but about one half of the required 
sum. What should she do 7 

It was at tills moment I met her. I stooped down, and 
she told me all her story; — told me all her sorrow, — a 
great sorrow for a little breast like hers. I made up the 
trifling amount, and, taking her by the hand, we went 
together towards her home. 

Keaehing th« house, we entered, and were met on the 
stairs by an old lady, who whispered in my ear, " Walk 
softly." I suspected in a moment the reason why she asked 
me thus to walk. She then led the way. She tried to keep 
back the little girl, but she could not. She hurried up the 
stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door, which she 
quickly opened. 

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I 
heard a sigh — a sob. It was from the child. The mother 
spoke in a tone so joyous that I was at first surprised to hear 
it from one who, it was supposed, was near her end. But I 
soon found it was no matter of surprise. 

How clear and fair was that face ! How pleading and 
eloquent those eyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed 
'brightness, upon me. as I approached the bedside of the mother 
of Nelly ! There were needed no words to convey' to my 
mind the thoughts that dwelt within that soul, whose strength 
seemed to increase as that of the body diminished. 

With one of her pale hands she took mine ; with the other, 
that of her daughter. 

" Blessings on you both ! " she said. " Nell^, my dear 
Nelly, my faithful, loving Nelly, I am much fetter than I 
was ; I shall soon be well, and what a happy time we will < 
have to-night ! I hear that voice again to-night, Nelly. 
Don't you hear it 1 It says, ' We shall all be happy soon.' 
I see a bright star above your head, my child ; and now I 
see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is 
27* 



318 UAI.F IIOUll STORIES. 

a beauty around her tliut I cannot describe. Nelly, I am 
better. Why, I feel (^uite well." 

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping 
Nelly's and my own, she stretched her arms upward Tiiere 
was a ))rigbt glow of indescribable joy upon her features. 
She spolu; (;;iliiily, sweetly spoke. " We shall all be happy 

soon — haj)[)y soon — happy "then fell back on the 

piihtvv, and moved no more — spoke not again. 

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly — she was sad. For 
a long time siie kejTt her hand in that of her mother. She 
at length jcmoved it, and fell upon the floor, beneath the 
weight of her new sorrow. Yet it was but for a moment. 
Suddenly sjie si)rang up, as if imbued with angelic hope and 
Ijcace. We were surprised to see the change, and to behold 
her face l)eam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose its 
sadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on 
such occasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see 
that -mother, and that mother's mother, bending over that 
child, and raising her up to strength and hope, and a living 
peace and joy. 

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped 
it when she came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid 
it on a stand beside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath 
the eyelids of the child as she beheld it, and thought how all 
day she had worked and walked to get the little sum with 
which her mother and she were to be made happy on that 
iiHk'i)eiidence night. I called her to me. We. sat down and 
talked over the past, the present and the future, and I was 
astonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, 
-patient soul poured forth. 

"Well, sir," she said, "we are happy to-night, though 
you think, perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But 
mother has gone from all these toiling scenes. She will 
•work no more all the long day, and the night, to earn a 



LITTLE NELLY. 319 

Bliilling, with which to buy our daily bread. She has gone 
where they have food that we know not of; and she's happy 
to-niglit, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. Wc shall all 
go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows 
here of those great, real things that exist thei'c ; and I some- 
times think, when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be 
a happy time when we leave them, and walk amid more sub- 
stantial things." 

Thus she talked for some time. 

Having rendered such assistance as I could, I left. The 
next day there was a funeral, and little Nelly was what 
they called "the chief mourner;" yet it seemed a very 
inappropriate name for one whose sorrow was so cheerful. 
There were but few of us who followed; and, when wo 
reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form was 
exposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung 
the following lines, which I had hastily penned for the ocoa- 
sion : 

Wil SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON. 

Dry our toars and wijio our eyes ! 
Angel friendH beyond the skies 
Open wide heaven's shining portal, 
Welcome us to joys imrnortal. 
Fear not, weep not, ours the boon ; 
Wo shall all be happy soon ! 

Hark ! a voice is whispering near us ; 
'T is an angel-voice to cheer us ; 
It entreats us not to weep, 
Fresh and green our souls to keep ; 
And it sings, in cheerful tune, 
We shall all be happy soon. 

Thus through life, though grief and caro 
May be given us to bear. 



320 UALF HOUR .STOUIEH. 

Though all dense and dark the cloud 
That our weary forms enshroud^ 
Nif^ht will pass, and come the noon, 
We shall all he happy soon. 

When the last lirw of each verse was sung, it was no 
fancy thought in us, in Nelly more than all others, that 
8uggeste<l the union of other voices with our own ; neither 
was it an illusion that pictured a great thing with harps, 
repeating the words, " We shall all be happy soon." 

The sexton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, 
was doubly interested ; and, when the last look was taken, 
and Nelly seemed to look less in the dark grave and more 
up to the bright sky above her than those in her situation' 
usually do, I saw him watch her, and a tear trickled down 
his wrinkled face. 

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. Ilis 
features brightened up. " For joy, for joy," said he. "I 
have put away the dead here for forty long years ; but I 
never beheld so liappy a burial as this. It seems as though 
the angels were with that child She looks so heavenly." 

Perhaps they were. And why say " perhaps "? Do we 
not launc they are ever round us, and very near to such a 
one as Nelly, at such a time? 



^.-. 



REUNION. 

When- we muse o'er days departed, 

Lightfl that nhone but shine no more, 
?'riends of ours who long since started 

O'er the sea without a shore ; 
Journeying on and journeying ever, 

Their frwjd spirits wing tlieir flight, 
Ceasing in tiieir progress never 

Towards the fountain-head of light , 
Oft we wish that they were near us, — 

We might s(;e the friends we love, — 
Then there come thf«e words to cheer ub, 

" Ye shall meet them all above." 

When the sun's first ray approacheth. 

Ushering in the noonfluy light ; 
When the noise of day encroacheth 

On tlie silence of the night ; 
When the drfjams depart that blest us 

In the hours forever fit-A, — 
In which friends long gone carrjst us, 

Frienfls we nnmUsr with the dead, — 
Com(« tliis thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them, 

Ne'er shall see the friemlw ye love ; 
Voices say, " Ye shall be nfjar tiiera 

With them in the world above." 

When within the grave's enclosurt 

Ye do drop the silent tear. 
Tremble not at its disclosure, 

Myriad spirits hover near. 



J22 UALF no UK STORIES. 

Hark ! tli'iy wliiHpor, do ye hoar not, 

Mingling witli your rJHing wghH, 
WordH tliat \i'u] you hope, and fijar not, 

Arigol-voicoH from tho Hkioa ? 
And aH duHt to dust roturnoth, — 

Tliat wliicJi hold the gom you love, — ■ 
Thino aflliotod Hjiirit loarnoth 

It will moot that gem aJ;ove. 

Thus whene'er a friend doparteth 

In my w;ul I know 't 18 right ; 
And, althougli tho warm t<jar Htarteth, 

Ah he paww^ from my flight, 
I do know that him I choriHli 

lloro on (!arth shall novor die ; 
That, though all thingH oIho Hhall perish, 

ilo Hhall live and roign on high. 
And, that when a few hourn more 

iSiiall have paHscd, then thoHO I lov«, 
Who have journeyed on before, 

I Hhall moot and greet above. 



THE VILLAGE MYSTERY. 

About fifty miles from a southern city, about five years 
ago, a most mysterious personage seemed to fall from the 
clouds into the midst of a circle of young ladies, whose hours 
and days were thenceforth busily employed in frizzing, guess- 
ing, pondering and ■wondering. 

He was a tall, graceful-formed gcntlcnian, wearing a pro- 
fessional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped over 
boots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capa- 
bilities of Day and Martin. He had no baggage ; which 
fact led some wise-headed old ladies to report him to be a 
gentleman of leisure, a literary millionaire, it might be, who 
was travelling through "the States" for the purpose of pick- 
ing up items for a book on '* Ameriky." The old men 
wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrably mysteri- 
ous. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was 
not superlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which 
was considerable among the girls ; and his appearance indi- 
cated wealth, for his dress was of the first quality and cut. 
He had half a dozen glistening rings on his hands ; he wore 
a breast-pin of dazzling brilliance ; and every time he moved 
a chained lion could not have made more noise, and clatter, 
and show with his fetters, than he did with a massive double- 
linked chain, that dnnced and flirted upon his crimson vest. 

Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an 
eye upon the new comer since he passed by the splendid 



824 HALF UOUR STORIES. 

mansion of their abode, casting a- sly glance up to the open 
window at which they stood. 

In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all 
the fashioualjle society of Greendale. He had drank tea 
with the "Commissioners," and walked out with their amia- 
ble daughters. He had visited the pastor, and had evinced 
great interest in the prosperity of the church. He had even 
cxliorted in the conference-meeting, and had become so pop- 
ular that some few, taking it for granted that so devout a 
man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking 
the old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pul- 
pit, — four hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a dona- 
tion-party's offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, 
and made himself perfectly at home with everybody and 
everything. The young men's society for ameliorating the 
condition of the Esquimauxs and Hottentots had been 
favored with his presence ; and, likewise, with a speech of 
five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishingly 
short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely 
framed. 

The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked 
80 inucii, and shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many 
pitiful exclamations, but with whom, however, he did not 
deign to associate, were filled with a prodigious amount of 
wonder at the lion and his adventures. They gathered at 
Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the corner, and 
Avondered and talked over the matter. The questions with 
ihom wore, Who is he '? — where did he come, and where is 
hi; going to ?• They would not believe all they had heard 
conjectuied about him, and some few were so far independ- 
ent as to hint of the po.ssihility of imposition. 

There were two who determined to find out, at all haz- 
ards, the name, history, come from and go to, of the myste- 
rious guest, and, to accomplish their purpose, they found it 



THE VILLAGE MYSTERY. 325 

necessary for them to go to Baltimore early the subsequent 
morning. 

The morning came. After taking a measurement of the 
height, breadth and bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental 
daguerreotype of his personal appearance, they departed. 



Having been very politely invited, it is no strange mat- 
ter of fact that, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on 
the fifth of March, a young man is seen walking slowly upon 
the shady side of Butternut-street, Greendale. To him all 
eyes are di»ected. Boys stop their plays, and turn tlieir 
in(juisitivo eyes towards the pedestrian. The loungers at 
Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestly at iiim ; 
while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold 
a short confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering 
whose " bairn " he can be. 

As he continues on his way, he meets a couple of sociable 
old ladies, with whom he formed an acquaintance at the sew- 
ing-circle. They shake hands most cordially. 

" Abby and Nelly are waiting for you ; they 're expecting 
you," says one of the ladies, as she breathes a blessing and 
bids him good-by, with a hope that ho will have a pleasant 
time at the deacon's. 

Let us now take a few steps in advance, and enter the 
hosj)itable mansion to which our mysterious personage, who 
has given his name as Sir Charles Nepod, is passing. 

Up these beautiful white steps walk with dainty tread. 
At this highly-polished door ring with gentle hand. 

A stout serving-man answers our call, and a tittering 
serving-girl scampers away and conceals herself behind the 
staircase, as we enter. What, think you, can be going on 7 
A wedding, forsooth, — perhaps a dinner-party. 

A brace of charming girls, the deacon's only daughters, 
•ire seated in the front parlor. We are introduced, and soon 



82G HALF HOUR storiks. 

Icfini that tlicy arc waitin<; tlio itnival of the talented, the 
b(!Ucvoh)iit Sir Charles ; and, as a matter of form and cour- 
tesy, rather than of sincerity and hosi)italitj, we are invited 
to remain and iiuMa him in the dming-room. Wc decline ; 
hid them good -by, and leave. As wc pass out, we arc hailed 
in a loud whisper hy the man who first met us, who glibly 
runs on with his talk aa he loads the way, walking sideways 
all the time to the door. 

"An' sirs, — sirs, dus ycrs know what the young Mis- 
thrcsscs is afthcr I Well, sirs, they 's goin' fur to hev' a 
grcath dinner with the furriner. Yes, sirs, with the furriner 
as come frum a furrin land, and was n't born in this at all 
a' tall." 

As wo reach the door, he steps up, whispei's in our oars, 

"An' I tells yer what, sirs, Kato, — that's the gal yer 
sees, sirs, — me and she 's goin' to see all frum the littlo 
winder beyant. This is conveniently private to you, sirs, 
an' I hopes ye '11 say nothing to no one about it, sirs ; 't is 
a private sacrot, sirs." 

What should induce this man to give us this information, 
wo canimot conceive. However, we have no reason to doubt 
what ho tells us, and therefore understand that a dinner- 
party is to come olf, with a wedding in perspective. 

As wo pass into the street, wc meet Nopod. 

As ho ascends the steps, the two girls, forgetting all rules 
of oti(iuetto, spring to the door, completely bewildering hon- 
est Mike, who is at hand, and welcome the man of the age. 

" INlothor and aunty have just gone out," says Nelly ; — 
" they thought we young folks would enjoy our dinner much 
better by ourselves alone." 

" llow considorato ! " replies the guest. " I met tho good 
old ladies on the street. How kind in them to bo so thought- 
ful ! IIow i)lea.santly will pass the hours of to-day! Thia 
•lay will be the happiest of my lifo." 



THE VILLAGE MYSTERY. 827 

The three pass to the dining-room. Though early in 
March, the weather is quite warm. In the haste of the 
moment, and somewhat confused by his warm welcome, our 
hero has taken his hat and cloak and laid them on a lounge 
"Hear an open window. Seated at the table, the company 
discourse on a variety of subjects, and the two sisters vie with 
each other in doinii the a<:reeable. 



Down town all was excitement, and a great crowd was 
gathered at tlie tavern. The investigating committee had 
returned from the city, and with the committee three men 
of mystei'ious look. To the uninitiated the mystery that 
had puzzled them for so long a time grew yet more myste- 
rious. Nothing could be learned from the two who had 
returned, respecting Sir Charles, or the additional strangers. 
Only dark and mysterious hints were thrown out, render- 
ing the whole affair more completely befogged than before. 

Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted 
the new comers out by a back passage, and soon they were 
seen in the same path which Sir Charles had followed. 

One of the men quietly opened the front door of the dea- 
con's home, and, entering, knocked upon the door of the 
dining-room. A voice said, "Come in;" and he proceeded 
to do so. 

In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the dis- 
tinguished guest sprang from the table, and leaped through 
the open window, leaving his hat and cloak behind. But 
the leap did not injure him, for he fell into the arms of a 
man who stood ready to embrace him ; and, mystery on mys- 
tery, they placed hand-cuffs on his wrists ! 

Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification 
of the deacon's girls, when they were told that he who had 
been their guest was a bold highwayman, who had escaped 
from the penitentiary. 



328 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

There was great ado in Gieendale that afternoon and 
evening. Those who had been unable to gain his attention 
said they knew all the time he was a rogue. The young 
men's society voted to sell the frame and destroy the printed 
speech ; and the next Sabbath the good pastor preached 
about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he might 
devour. 



THE WAYSIDE DEATH. 

Not many years since, an old man, who had for a long time sat by the 
wayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for his daily 
bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-mannered reply to his 
request for alms. Subsequent inquiries proved that he had been a soldier 
in the American Revolution. 

When Freedom's call rang o'er the land, 

To bring ita bold defenders nigh, 
Young Alfred took a foremost stand, 

Resolved to gain the day or die. 
And well he fought, and won the trust ; 

When the day's conflicts had been braved, 
The foe's proud ensigns lay in dust, 

While Freedom's banner victor waved. 

But now he is a poor old man. 

And they who with hipi, side by side, 
Fought bravely in that little van. 

Have left him, one by one, — have died. 
And now to no one can he tell. 

Though touched with patriot fire his tongue, 
The story of those days which well 

Deserve to be by freemen sung. 
And cherished long as life shall last ; 

To childhood told, that it may know 
W ho braved the storm when came the blast, 

And vanquished Freedom's direst foe. 

He sits there on the curb-stone now. 
That brave old man of years gone by ; 

Hia head 'rieath age and care would bow, 
But yet he raiseth it on high, 

28* 



330 UALF nOUR STORIES. 

And, stretcliing out his feeble hande, 

Hfe asks a penny from man's purse, 
Food for himself from off- that land 

He fouglit to save. Yet, but a curse 
Falls from their lips to greet his ear ; 

And he, despairing, turns and sighs, 
And bows his head, — there falls one tear 

It is tlie last — he dies. 

Now men do rudely lift his hat, 

To gaze upon his furrowed face. 
And say, " It is the man who sat 

Here for so long a Ibul disgrace.'' 
Crowds gather round the spot to see, 

And then pass idly on, and say. 
To those who ask who it can be, 

" 'T is but a vagrant of the way." 

Thus he who fought and bled to gain 
The blessings which are round us strewn, 

For one he asked, besought in vain. 

Received man's curse, and died — unknown. 

0, my own country ! shall it be 

Tliat they who through thy struggle passed, 
And bore thy banner manfully. 

Shall thus neglected die at last ? 
0, shall it be no help shall come 

From thy o'erflowing wealth to bless? 
Wilt thou be blind, wilt thou be dumb. 

To pleas like theirs in wretchedness ? 

Answer ! and let your answer bo 

A helping hand lowered doAvn to raise 
From want and woo those who for thee 

Won all thy honor, all thy praise. 
And made thee what thou art to-day, 

A refuge and a hope for man ; 
Speak ! ere the last one wings away ; 

Act ! act while yet to-day you can. 



BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE. 331 



BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE. 

[for an engraving of cottage girl and lamb.] 

O, MAIDEN, standing in the open field, 

On pasture sparkling with the morning dew ! 

What joy thou findest Nature now to yield 
To hearts developed right, — hearts that are true • 

Above is beauty, as along the sky 

The dawn of light sends forth its herald ray 

To arch the heavens, and myriad leagues on high 
Proclaim the coming of the god of day. 

Beneath is beauty ; see the glistening gems 
Around thy feet in rich profusion strewn ; 

Such as ne'er glows in kingly diadems. 

Such as man's handiwork hath never shown. 

Around is beauty ; on each vale and hill, 

In open field and in the shady wood, 
A voice is whispering, soft, and low, and still, 

" All, all is beautiful, for God is good." 

Thou, too, art beautiful, 0, maiden fair. 
While Innocence within thine ai-ms doth rest ; 

And thou wilt e'er be thus, no grief thou 'It share, 
If such a blessing dwell within thy breast 

As that whose emblem now lies gently there. 



332 HALF HOUR STORIES. 



NIGHT. 



I 'ye watched the sun go down, and evening draw 
Its twiliglit mantle o'er the passive earth, 
And hang its robe of l^lue, all gemmed with stars, 
High over all for mortal eyes to gaze at. 
And now I come to tread this sodded earth. 
To walk alone in Nature's vaulted hall ; 
Yet, not alone ; — I hear the rustling leaf. 
The cricket's note, the niglit-bir'd's early lay ; 
*I feel the cool breeze as it fans my brow. 
And scent the fragrance of the untainted air. 

I love the night. There 's something in its shade 
That sends a soothing influence o'er the soul, 
And fits it for reflection, sober thought. 
It comes bearing a balm to weary ones, 
A something undefinable, yet felt 
By souls that feel the want of something real. 

And now 't is night, and well it is that I 
Am here. I stand, my hand on this old tree, 
Pressing its mossy side, with no one near 
I can call fellow in the human sfrife. 
The great, unfinished drama of this life. 
Alone, alone, with Nature and its God, 
I '11 sit me down, and for a moment muse 
On busy scenes, and, like some warrior chief, 
Behold, yet mingle not in earth's great acts. 

To-night how various are the states of men ! 
Some, bowed by sickness, press their sleepless couch 
Wishing while day doth last that night would come. 
And now that niglit is with them wish for day. 
Remorse holds some in its unyielding grasp ; 
Despair, more cruel yet, haunts some men's souls ; 
Both, ministers of justice conscience sends 
To do its fearful bidding in those breasts 
Which have rebelled and disavowed its rule. 



333 



Perchance, a inaiJon happy as a queen 
To-niglit doth fix her destiny. A happy throng 
Gather around, and envy her her bliss. 
They little know what magic power lies low 
In the filled wine-eup us they pass it round ; 
They little tliink it plants a venomcd dart 
In tlie glad soul of her whoso lips do press 
Its dancing sparkles. 

Sorrow's nucleus ! 
Round tliat cup shall twine mcqiories so dark 
That night were noonday to them, to their gloom. 
Dash it aside I See you not how laughs 
Within the chalice brim an evil eye ? 
Each sparkling ray that from its depth comes up 
Is the foul tempter's hand outstretched to grasp 
The thoughtless that may venture in his rqach. 

How to-niglit the throng press on to bend 
The knee to Baal, and to place a crown 
On Magog's princely head ! Dollars and dimes, 
A purse well-filled, a soul that pants for more ; 
An eye that sees a farthing in the dust, • 
And in its glitter plenitude of joy. 
Yet sees no beauty in the stars above, 
No cause for gladness in the light of day, — 
A hand tliat grasps the wealth of earth, and yields 
For sake of it the i-icher stores of heaven ; 
A soul that loves the perishing of earth, 
And hates that wealth which rust can ne'er corrupt. 
How many such ! IIow many bar their souls 
'Gainst ey.ery good, yet ope it wide to wrong ! 
This night they 're all in arms. They watch and wait ; 
Now that tlie sun hath fled, and evening's shade 
Doth follow in its path, tliey put in play 
The plans which they in daylight have devised, 
Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down 
Tlio ilower-strewn patJi a daughter or a son. 
On wliose lair, white brow, tlie warm, warm moisture 
Of a parent's kiss seems ye; to linger. 
Stay ! daughter, son, O, li- 'id a friend's advice, 



334 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

Rush not in thoughtless gayety along ! 
Beware of pit-falls. Listen and you '11 bear 
From some deep pit a warning voice to thee ; 
For thousands low have fallen, who once had 
Hopes, prosj.eots, fair as thine ; they listened, fell ! 
And from the depths of their deep misery call 
On thee to think. 0, follow not, but reach 
A lielping hand to raise them from their woe ! 

Clouds hide the moon ; how now doth wrong prevail ' 
"Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near. 
0, what a sight were it for man to see, 
Should there on this dark, shrouded hour 
Burst in an instant forth a noonday light ! 
How many who are deemed righteous men, 
And bear a fair exterior by day, 
Would now be seen in fellowship with sin ! 
Laugliing, and sending forth their jibes and jeers, 
And doing deeds which Infamy might own. 

But not alone to wrong and base intrigue 
Do minister these shades of night ; for Love 
Holds high her beacon Charity to guide 
To deeds that angels might be proud to own. 
Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast. 
Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift 
Its modest worth in secret would confer. 
No human eye beheld the welcome purse 
Dropped at the poor man's humble cottage door ; 
But angels saw the act, and they have made 
A lasting record of it on the scroll 
That bears the register of human life. 

Many a patient sufferer watches now 
The passing hours, and counts them as they flee. 
Many a watclier with a sleepless eye 
Keeps record of the sick man's every breath. 
Many a mothe- bends above her child 
In deep solicitude, in deathless love. 

Night wears away, and up the eastern sky 
The dawn approaches. So shall life depart, — 



NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED. 335 

This life o* ours on earth, — and a new birth 
Approach to greet us with immortal joys, 
So gently on our inner life shall come 
The light of heaven. 

Time moveth on, and I must join again 
The busy toil of life ; and I must go. 
And yet I would not. I would rather stay 
And talk with these green woods, — for woods can talk. 
Didst ever hear their voice ? In spring they speak 
Of early love and youth, and ardent hope ; 
In summer, of the noon of wedded life, 
All buds and blossoms and sweet-smelling flowers , 
In autumn, of domestic bliss with all its fund 
Of ripe enjoyments, and then winter hears 
The leafless trees sing mysterious hymns, 
And point their long lean arms to homes above. 
Yes, the old woods talk, and I might hold 
A sweet communion here with them to-night. 
Farewell to Night ; farewell these thoughts of mine, 
For day hath come. 



NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED. 

I SAT and mused o'er all the years gone by ; 

Of friends departed, and of others going ; 
And dwelt upon their memories with a sigh, 

TUl floods of tears, their hidden springs o'erflowing, 
Betrayed my grief. Soon, a bright light above me. 
Voices saying, " We 're near thee yet to love thee,"' 

Dispelled my tears. I raised my drooping head, 

And asked, " Who, who, — the dead ? " 
When the angelic host around me ranged 
Whispered within my ear, " Not dead, but changed." 



THE DISINHERITED. 

My next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This 
was all I knew about him, until the circumstance I am about 
to tell you occurred. 

One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had 
taken up an evening paper with which to occupy my time, 
untiT an acquaintance of mine, who I momentarily expected, 
should arrive. It was December, — cold, blustering, and by 
no means an agreeable time to be out of doors, or away from 
a good fire. Such being the state of afiairs, as far^ as weather 
was concerned, I began to think I should not see my friend 
that night, wdien a smart rap upon the outer door, half a 
dozen times repeated, prevented me from further specula- 
tion. 

Why did n't he ring 7 — there was a bell. It must have 
been a stranger, else he would have used it. 

Presently "^ servant came with the information that a 
stranger was at the door with a carrfage, and wished my 
immediate presence. 

" Request him to walk in," said I. 

"He cannot wait a moment," answered the servant; — 
" he wishes you to put on your hat and coat, and go with 
him." 

"Wliere?" 

" He did not say." 

This was a strange interruption, — strange that a man, a 
stranger, in fact, should call for me to go out with him on 



THE DISINIIERITKD. 337 

such a night ; but I mustered courage, and went out to meet 
liim. I don't know what induced u>e so readily to grant his 
request ; but out I went, hatted, coated and booted. As I 
approached, I heard the Mling ot* steps, and the voice of the 
coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching the carriage, 
I looked in and boheld Jotham Jonks In I jumped, and 
before I was seated the carriage was moving. 

The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we 
passed through the lighted streets*with almost incredible 
speed. I ventured to mitke an inquiry, and the reply was, 

" You are doing o good deed. My name is Jotham Jenks. 
Ask no questions now."' 

Thus was a vetff put upon the movements of my tongue for 
the time being. I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. 
Jenks ; and though I knew but little respecting him, I judged 
from his appearance that he was a. quiet, unoffending man ; 
and such I afterwards found him. 

For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the 
wiiter, ice and snow, to take to themselves wings and fly 
upon pedestrians, windows, and sundry other animate and 
inanimate objects of creation. For m^'self, I began to ex- 
perience some misgiving, for thus exposing myself to what, I 
did not know. 

At length the carriage turned down a dark, narroAv street, 
hading to one of the wharves, iipon which we finally found 
ourselves. The driver jumped from his seat, opened the 
Civrriage-door, threw down the steps, and we got out. 

Matters had reached a crisis. Was I to be thrown into 
the water? The assurance of my companion that I was 
doing a good deed seemed to disfavor this supposition, as 
what possible good could that do myself or any one else "? 
Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room, on such a 
cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf'/ 
29 



338 HAI-F HOUR STORIES. 

" Now," said I to the stranger, " I must know the mean 
ing of all this, — the wbj and the wherefore." 

He took my hand in his. It was quite dark. I could 
not see, yet I could tell by his voice that he wept, as he 
said, 

" In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, 
far from his home, among strangers, — sick, pcihnps dying. 
No relative, other than those of the great brotherhood of 
mankind, is noar to minister to hjg wants, or to speak com- 
fort to his trou1)lcd heart. He had been here about two days, 
when I was informed of his situation by a friend who came 
in the same vessel. I have brought you here that you might 
listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him. 
Tiicre is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you are 
preparing a volume of life-sketches, as found in town and 
country, I have thought that what falls from his lips might 
fill a few pages with interest and profit to your readers." 

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My suspicions and 
fears were all allayed ; I asked no more questions, but fol- 
lowed my friend as he passed to the vessel, and descended 
the narrow stairway to the cabin. 

A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of 
gloomy light around. I had been in chambers of sickness, 
but never in a room where more neatness was discernible, or 
more sufiiciency for its tenant, than in the cabin in which I 
then was. A sailor boy seated by a berth indicated to me 
the spot where the sick man lay. We were informed that 
he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were careful not to 
awake him. 

But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke 
him. He gazed around is one often docs after a deep sleep; 
but a consciousness of his situation, and a recognition of my 
companion, soon dispelled his vaca'it looks, and his features 



THE DISINHERITED. 339 

■were illumed with as expressive a smile as it has ever been 
my fortune to behold. 

I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as famil- 
iar as old acquaintances. His name was Egbert Lawrence, 
and his age I should judge from appearances to be about 
twentj-five. 

"It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has 
given you some account of my circumstances," he remarked, 
addressing me. 

I replied that he had not, any further than to state that 
he was friendless. He started, as I said this, and ex- 
claimed, 

" Friendless ! His own modesty, that sUre mark of true 
merit, induced him to say that ; but. dear sir, I have a friend 
in him, greater than in any other on earth now. I had a 
fjiend, but, alas ! she 's gone." 

I corrected his impressioa ; remarked that I only intended 
to convey the fact that he was in a strange country, among 
a strange people, and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was 
worthy of assistance, and that a sketch of his life would 
interest me. 

" Then you would like to hear of my past, would you 1 " 

"Most certainly," I replied; "and should consider it a 
favor should you consent to give it to me." 

To this he at once consented. 

"I was born in the west of England," he began, "and 
can well remember what a charming little village it was in 
which I passed my earliest days. My mother was a woman 
of the finest sen.sibilities, — too fine, in fact, for the rough 
winds of this world. Ilcr heart beat too strongly in sym- 
pathy with the poor and opprcs.sed, the weary-footed and 
troubled ones, to live among and not have the weight of their 
sorrows and cai'cs boar also upon hci', and gradually wear 
out the earth tenement of her spirit. 



840 HALF HOUR STOniEf?. 

" As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it waf 
mine. I iiilicvitcd it. lUit I would not flatter myself s» 
Uiiicli as to say that I, in like manner, partook of her heav- 
enly, loving nature, or that I in any of her nohle traits Avaj 
worthy of being her son. 

"Many times have I been the bearer of her secret chari- 
ties. Many times have I heard the poor bless the unknown 
hand that placed bounties at their door. Many times have 
I seen my mother weep while I told her of what I heard the 
recipients of her benevolence tell their neighbors, and the 
many conjectures in their minds as to who the donor' could 
be. And, 0, there ivas joy sparkling in her eyes when I 
told her of what I had seen and heard ! The grateful poor, 
concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not 
tell for a • certainty who it was who gave them food and 
clothing, they would kneel down and thank God; for, said 
they, in their honest, simple manner. He knows. The 
benevolent hivnd cannot hide itself from his presence, or 
escape his reward. 

" My fiither was quite a different person. How it was 
they met and loved, I could not for a long time determine. 
Eut one ovening my mother told me all about it, and said 
he was not the man of lier choice, but of her parents' choice ; 
nnd that she had never loved him with that deep and earnest 
love that alone can bind two hearts in one onbrace. But 
she said she had endeavored to do her duty towards him. 
(^ood woman ! I knew that. 'T was her very nature to do 
tliat. 'T was a law of her being, and she could not evade it. 

"My fatiier was a rough, coarse-minded man. He held 
an office under the governinent, and, fiom being accustomed 
to the e.xereise of some little authority without doors^ became 
habituated to a morose, ill-natured manner of woids and 
behavior within our home. I remember how I changed my 
lone of voice, and my mode of action, when at night ho come 



THE DISINHERITED. 341 

home. With my mother I talked and lauglicd, and plaved 
mevrilj in her presence, and rather liked to have her look 
on my sports ; but AVhen my father came I never smiled. I 
sat up on my chair in one correr as stiff and upright as the 
elm-tree in front of our house. I never played in his pres- 
ence. I seldom heard a kind "word from him. My mother 
used to call me ' Berty, my dear,' ^vhen she Avished me ; but 
my father always shouted, sternly, ' Egbert, come here, sir ! ' 
and I would tremblingly respond, ' Sir.' 

"Few persons seemed to love him; those Avho did, did so 
with an eye to business. It was policy in them to flatter the 
man who could favor them pecuniarily, and they hesitated 
not to do so. One time, when my fother's vote and influence 
were worth five thousand pounds to his party, and he exhib- 
ited symptoms of withholding them, he had rich presents sent 
him, and every night some half a dozen or more would call 
in and sit and talk with him, and tell him how admirably all 
the schemes he had started for the good of the town had suc- 
ceeded, and in all manner of ways would flatter the old gen- 
tleman, so that he would be quite pleasant all the next day. 
At this time handsome carriages came to take him to ride, 
and gentlemen proposed an afternoon's shooting or fishing, 
or sport of some kind, and my father always accepted and 
was always delighted. The simple man, he could n't see 
through the gauze bags they were drawing over his head ! 
lie did not notice the nets with which they Avere entangling 
his feet. When election came, he gave his vote, and did not 
keep back his influence. 

" JNIy father Avas not benevolent to any great degree. Ho 
gave, it is true. He gaA'^e to missionary societies, to educa- 
tion and tract societies, and his name was always found 
printed in their monthly reports; but he never gaA'e, as my 
mother did, to the poor around us, unseen, unknoAvn. Not 
even he kneAA of my mother's chaj-itablc acts ; but all the 
29^^ 



S4-2 r\TF norm stories. 

town knew of his, and he was looked upon by the great mass 
of public mind to be the most benevolent. Bat it was not 
so. Far from it. One shilling from my mother, given with 
the heart, with synipathy, given for the sake of doing good, 
not for the sake of popularity, was a greater gift than a 
I'.undred pounds from my father's hand, given as he always 
gnvo it. 

'• I attended school but little. My mother wished nie to 
have a good education, but my father said if I could 'figure' 
well it was enough. I was taken from school and put in a 
store, — a place which I abhorred. I was put there to sell 
tape, and i)ins, and thread, and yarn ; and I was kept behind 
tlio counter from early morn until late at night 

•' I had one brother, but his mind was nothing like mine. 
llo partook of my fatlier's nature. We seldom agreed upon 
nny matter, and I always chose to be alone rather than with 
him. I do not think I was wrong in this, for our minds 
were of diflferent casts. Neither of us made our minds or our 
dispositions. There was. therefore, no blame upon any one, 
if, on account of the difference in our mental organizations, 
oiu' afhuitics led us apart. It was a perfectly natural result 
of a natural cause. 

'' [ will not weary you with more detail of my life to- 
night ; but to-morrow, if you have any interest in what I 
have begun to tell you, I will tell you more." 

I had noticed that he began to be exhausted with his effort, 
nnd was about to propose that a future time be allotted to 
vdiat more he chose to relate. 

I assured him of an increased interest in him, and sug- 
gested removing liim to a good boarding-house. lie at first 
declined, but upon further urging he accepted, a.nd, having 
seen that all his wants were for that night attended to, we 
left, with the understanding that a carriage should convey 



THE DISINHERITED. 343 

him to more ?ommocliou9 quarters on the morrow, if the 
weather permitted. 

I had no fears of my companion as we rode up the wharf 
and drove thro.igh the streets, the storm beating down furi- 
ously around us. I reached -my hpme, and Mr. Jenks 
thanked me for my kindness in blindly following him, and I 
in return thanked him for the pleasant adventure to which 
he had introduced me. 

CHAPTER II. 

The next morning the weather was clear and the air invig- 
orating, as is often the case after a severe storm. With my 
neighbor Jenks I procured a good home for the wanderer, 
and in a short time he was located in it. 

I was soon seated by his side, and he continued his 
narrative. 

" I told you last evening of my parents, and of my en- 
trance upon business life. About that time a great sorrow 
visited me. My mother was taken sick, rapidly declined, 
and in a fortnight left this state of existence. Beyond this 
world it seemed all dark to me then ; but now it is brightei 
there than here, and there . is no uncertainty in my mind 
respecting that coming state. 

" I have not told you she died. She did not die. There 
is no such word as death in my vocabulary. She did not 
sleep even. She passed 'from a crumbling, falling building 
into an enduring and beautiful temple, not made with hands. 
But to me, then, as I have told you, it was all dark ; and it 
was not a wonder that I was sad, and that it was indeed a 
heavy sorrow that rested on my spirit. Even with the faith 
that she had, the thought of being left with a man such as 
my father was would have made me sad. Yoii will wonder, 
perhaps, that I had nDt learned from such a mother as mine 
a clearer faith than that which possessed my mind at the 



' I HALF HOUR STORIES. 

lirao of her departure ; but I had not. It was impossible for 
me to accept a truth with that amount of evidence which sat- 
isfied her mind, and I doubted, at times, a future existence. 
But I do not doubt it now. I have liad proof, — abundant 
proof; and, 0, tlio joy thiit fills my .soul is unfathomable. 

" Mj father now became more tyrannical than ever, and 
everything tended to destroy whatever, there was of my 
mother's disposition in iny character. But nothing could 
force it from me. I was sensitive as ever to the remarks and 
the looks of all with whom I ca,mc in contact, and the severe 
and unmerited reprimands of my father almost crushed me. 

"Several years passed by. I wasted them in a retail 
store. It was. however, not a complete loss to me, for there 
I formed an actjuaintance with a young lady, the daughter 
of a poor collier. Our friendship ripened to mutual love, 
and w«e were happy only when in each other's presence. Our 
interviews were frequent, and unknown to any one but our- 
selves for a long time. At length my father became 
acquainted with the facts. He called me to his room one 
night, and scolded me, threatened to disinherit me, and 
treated me as though I had been guilty of the most heinous 
crime. 

"'You miserable, good-for-nothing scamp!' said he. 
' Why do you seek to lower yourself in the estimation of 
every man, and bring disgrace on the name and fame of my 
family, by associating with the pooi' daughter of a worthless 
laborer?' 

"This fired my brain; but I was timid and dare not 
speak my thoughts in his presence. I listened. He show- 
ered upon me all the evil epithets his tongue could dispense, 
and, raving like a madman, he pushed me to the door, and 
told me to ccaseuiy visits upon Evelina or leave his house 
forever and clJB|c my name, for he would not shelter me, 
cr own any relationship to me. 



THE DTSTNUEUITED. 345 

'' Poor girl ! She little thought how much I that night 
endured for her, or how much I was willing to bear. She 
was a beautiful being, — so much like my mother, so gentle, 
and loving, and benevolent ! We were one. True, no earthly 
law recognized us as such ; but God's law did, — a law writ- 
ten with his hand on our beating hearts. We had been 
joined far, far back, ages gone.by^ when our souls first had 
tlieir birth,- — long ere they became enshrined in earth forms. 
The church might have passed its ceremonial bond about us, 
but that would iiave been mere form — that Avould have been 
a union which man might have put asunder, and often does. 
But of a true union of souls it is useless to say ' what God has 
joined let no man put asunder ; ' for he cannot any more than 
he can .annul any other of his great laws. 

"My father's reprimands and threatenings could not, 
therefore, dissolve that bond which united me to EvSlinaj 
and she to me. So, as soon as I left his room, I sought her 
presence. I told her all, and she wept to think of what she 
had caused, as she said. But I tried to convince her, and 
succeeded in doing so finally, that it was not she Avho had 
caused it. She had not made her soul or its attributes. 
God had made them, and if they were in unison with mine, 
or if they had attractions that drew my soul to hers, the 
hiw under which they came together and Avould not be sepa- 
rated was God's law, and we could not escape it. 

" That night we walked down by the river's side, and we 
talked of those great principles that govern us. We studied, 
there in the clear moonlight, God's works, and I asked her 
whether in loving the beautiful and the good we did not love 
God. 

"Her mhid opened a bi'ight effulgence of light to my 
spirit. 'Yes,' said she, 'it is even so. God is a spirit. Jlo 
fdls immensity, — and if so, then he imbues thfe little flower 
with his own life, for he is the life of all things. It is as ho 



346 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

made it, and as wc love it wc love liim. When we love a being 
for his goodness, we love God ; for tl*at goodness is of God.'' 

" ' Yes,' I remarked ; ' I see it is so. I do not love jou 
as a material being. It is not your flesh and bones merely 
that I love, liut it is the goodness dwelling in you. As that 
goodness is more abundant in you than in others, in like 
degree does God dwell in you more than in them. If, there- 
fore, I love you more than I love them, I love God more than 
I should did my supreme love find its highest object in them. 
In loving you, therefore, I love God so far as you possess the 
characteristics by which we personify that being. It is not 
wrong, therefore, to love you or the flower; for goodness 
exists in one, and beauty in the other, and they both are of 
God, and in loving them we love God.' 

" We parted at a late hour. I went witii her to the door 
of th? little cottage in which she dwelt with lier father. Her 
mother had died, as they call it, long years before; and, as 
I kissed her, and pressed her hand and bade her good-by, I 
felt more strongly than ev.cr a determination to bear any pri- 
vation, endure any suffering, for her sake. 

" I reached my home. I found the doors fastened and all 
quiet. The moon shone very clear, and it was nearly as 
light as at noon-day. I tried the windows, and fortunately 
found one of them unfastened. I raised it very carefully, 
and ci'ept in, and up to my room. The next morning at 
l)reakfast my father, spoke not a word, but I knew by his 
manner that lie was aware of my disregard of his command, 
and I thought that all that prevented him from talking to 
me was a want of language strong enough to express the 
passionate feelings that ran riot in his soul. 

" I juilgcd rightly. For at niglit his passion found vent 
in words, and such a copious torrent of al)use that I shud- 
dered. Nevertheless, I yielded not one position of my heart, 
and was conscious that I had a strength of purpose that 



THE DISINHERITED. 347 

would ever defend the right, and could not be swayed by 
mere words. 

" There was no limit to my father's abuse when it became 
known to a few of his friends that I had been seen in com- 
pany with the collier's daughter. I endured all, and was 
willing to endure more. He seemed to have a peculiar dis- 
like of Evelina's fithcr, as also to her. This I could not 
account for. 

'■ At length I became of age, and on my birthday my 
father called me to him, and, in his usual stern, uncompro- 
mising way, asked me if I persisted in paying attention to 
Evelina. I answered promptly that I did. I had had so 
many conflicts that I had lost much of my timidity, and 
I now defined my position clear, and maintained it reso- 
lutely. 

"'Then leave my house at once!' said my fathdr. 'I 
throw you fioin me as I would a reptile from my clothes ; 
and go, go with my curse upon you ! Take your penniless 
girl, and build yourself a name if you can ; for you have lost 
the one you mi^ht have held with honor to yourself and to 
me. I had chosen for you a wife, a rich and fashionable 
lady, the daughter of a nobleman, and one of whom to be 
proud ; but you have thought best to be your own judge in 
such matters, and you made a fool of yourself But you 
shall not stamp my family with such folly, or wed its name 
to dishonor.' 

" I endeavored to reply ; but he would hear no word from 
my lips. He sprang from his seat, walked the room in the 
greatest rage, and whenever I opened my mouth to speak 
would shout, ' Stop your noise, you ungrateful, heartless 
wretch ! ' 

" He was determined to carry out his threat. That night 
he locked me out of the house, and took special pains to make 
the windows fast. In the papers of the next day he adver- 



348 HALF HOUR STORIES, 

tised mc as disinherited and cast off, and warned the world 
agiiinst me. lie also circulated false reports respecting me, 
and spared neitb^r money nor effort to injure me. He preju- 
diced my employers, so that they at once dischai'ged me, 
without a momenfs warning. And all this from a father ! 
0, how often I thought of that loving, sympathizing mother ! 
How often I recognized her presence in my silent hours of 
thought ! Dear, sainted friend ! she rvas with me often, 
unseen })ut not unfelt. 

" Evelina faltered not. She bore all the opprobrium of 
false friends with a brave heart, and rested on my promises 
as the dove rests its weary head beneath its downy wing. 
Her father had confidence in me. 

" It was astonishing how changed all things were. The 
day previous, I was the son of a wealthy and influential man. 
I was^espected, apparently, by all. Very many professed 
a friendship for me, and told me how much they valued my 
company. Young ladies politely recognized me as I passed 
through the streets ; and old ladies singled me out as an 
exan)j)lo for their sons to follow. But on that day no one 
knew mc. Not one of those who iiad professed such friend- 
ship for mc canie and took me by the hand when I needed 
their friendly grasp the most ! Young ladies, wlien Ave met, 
cast their glances on the earth, on the sky, anywhere 
but on me. Old ladies scandalized me, and warned the 
ol>jocts of their paternal consideration against a course like 
mine. 

" And why all tiiis'/ It was because I loved Evelina, — a 
poor man's only cliild ! " 

ClIAPTEJl III. 

Egbert's health seemed to improve now that he was in 
more comfortable quarters, and had sympathizing friends to 



THE DISINHERITED. 349 

wliom bo could narrate \}\c story of his life. In the cc urse 
of a few days he rode out a short distance. After a rest 
of a week, daring which his strength had increased, ho 
continued his narrative, in whicli we had become deeply 
interested. 

" I found a home at the cottage of Evelina. We made 
arrangements to be mariied according to law, and in due time I 
applied to the minister of the town to perform the ceremonies. 
I was surprised when he refused ; yet I . well knew what 
inducements led him to act thus. My father was tlie leading 
man in his church. The minister looked to him as one of 
the chief pillars of support to his society, and consequently 
to his means of livelihood. There was no one in the town 
upon whom the public eye, religious or political, rested with 
more hope than upon my father. He exhorted in the meet- 
ings with an earnestness worthy of the most devoted follower 
of Cromwell ; and was as strict and rigid in. the performance 
of his public religious duties as the most precise Puritan of 
the old school could wish. Did the chapel need repairs, my 
father was consulted. Was it proposed to make a donation 
to the pastor, my father was expected to head the list with a 
large subscription, and he did. Was it strange, then, that 
he gave such a decided refusal to my simple re(j[uest, know- 
ing, as he did, and everybody did, my circumstances'.'. It 
seems not. Perhaps it ^yas foolish for me to ask a favor of 
such a man ; but I did, and he had an opportunity of exhib- 
iting his allegiance to public opinion, and his disregard of the 
voice within, that must have commanded him to do right, 
and to adhere to truth and justice in the face of all 
oppo.sition. 

'•'■ It w-as soon noised abroad that I had endeavored to get 

married and had failed. There was great rejoicing, and one 

old lady took the trouble to send her man-servant to me with 

the message that she was glad to know that her good pastor 

30 



350 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

had indignantly refused to place his seal on my bond of 
ini(|nity. 

" The dark cloud that all this time overshadowed my 
path rested also on the path of Evelina's father. This was 
all that troubled me. He, good man, had more ti-ue religion 
in his soul than the pastor and all the people in theirs; yet 
he was scorned and ill-treated. All this was not new to him. 
He had lived in that town four-and- forty years, and had 
always been frowned upon by the boasting descendants of 
proud families, and had received but little good from their 
hands. The church looked upon him as a poor, incorrigible 
sinner. No one spoke to him, unless it was to ask him to 
perform some hard job. It was not strange that, judging 
from the works of the people who called themselves Chris- 
tians, he liad a dislike to their forms. He chose a living 
Cliristianity ; and theirs. Avith all its rites, with all its pre- 
tensions, with all its heralded faith, was but a mockery to 
him. It was but a shadow of a Bu])stantial reality. He 
chose the substance ; he rejected the shadow, and men called 
him 'infidel' who had not a titlie of vital religion in their 
own souls, while his was filled to repletion with tliat heaveidy 
boon. 

"For a time the war of persecution raged without, and slan- 
der find base innuendoes the weapons were employed against 
us. But within all was peace and quiet, and our home was 
indeed a heaven, — for we judged that heaven is no locality, 
no ideal country staked off so' many leagues this way, and 
so many that ; but that it is in our own souls, and we could 
have our heaven here as well as beyond the grave. We 
thought Christ meant so when lie said ' the kingdom of 
heaven is within you'! We pitied those w»ho were always 
Baying that when they reached heuven there would be an 
end of all sorrow and wished tTiey could see as we did that 



THE DISINHERITED. 351 

heaven was to reach them, not they to reach it. We feared 
that the saying of Pope, 

' Man never is, but always to be blest,' 

might prove true of them, and that even when they had 
passed the boutidaiy which they fancied divided them from 
heaven, ihey would yet be looking on to some future state 
for the anticipated bliss. 

•' Whiit cared v.e. in our home, for the jibes and sneers and 
falsehoods without / Tho.se who are conscious of being in 
tlie right have no fear of the goal to which their feet are 
tending. I heard from my father often, but never met him. 
By some means he always evaded me. That which troubled 
him most was the calmness with which I received the results 
of his course towards me. He knew that I was happy and 
contented. This was what troubled him. Had 1 manifested 
a great sorrow and writhing beneath what he deemed troubles, 
he would have greatly rejoiced, and so would all his ft-iends. 

" I had accumulated a small property, and was prosper- 
ing, notwithstanding the efforts of many to embarrass me. 
A few began to see that I was not so bad as I had been rep- 
resented to be, and they began to sympathize with me. This 
aroused my father's anger afresh. 

" We had been married by a magistrate of another town, 
and the clouds above our outsi*le or temporary affairs seemed 
breaking away, when an event occurred that frustrated all 
our plans. 

" One evening I heard the cry of ' fire.' and, on attempting 
to go out, I found the entry of the house filled with a dense 
smoke. The smoke poured into the room in which Evelina 
and her father were seated. I ru.shed to the window, dashed 
it out. and, having seen my wife and her father safely depos- 
ited without, secured what of the property I could. In a 



•>o:: HALF hour stories. 

few moments the cottage was enveloped in flames, and it was 
not long before no vestige of our happy home remained, 
except the smoking embers and a heap of ashes. We were 
now, indeed, poor in gold and lands ; but it seemed to each 
of us that what had l)een taken from our purse had been put 
in our hearts, foi- we loved each other more than ever befoi e, 
if such a love were possible ; and, though we received but 
little sympathy from without, we had a fund of sympathy 
within, that made us forget our seeming sorrows, and rejoice 
in bliss unspeakable. 

"It was reported that I had fired the cottage. I well 
knew with whom this charge originated, and I had good 
reasons for believing that the ma-tch that fired our house came 
from the same source. 

"Our condition' was such that we concluded to leave the 
place where so much had been endured, and tliose who had 
strewn our path with what they intended for thorns and 
brambles. 

" We left. We journeyed to Liverpool, and engaged a 
passage in a New York packet for the United. States. It 
was a beautiful morning when we set sail, and everything 
seemed reviving in the possessing of life. Our ship's flags 
looked like smiling guardians as they fluttered above us, and 
all on board the ' White Wing ' were happy. There were 
about three hundred passengei's. There were old and young ; 
some travelling on business, some for a place they might 
call their home, some for pleasure, and a few for the im- 
nrovement of their health. There were entire families, and, 
in some cases, those of three generations. How varied were 
the hopes that filled their souls ! how different the objects 
that led them forth over the deep and trackless sea, exposing 
themselves to cruntless perils ! 

" Evelina and myself mused thus as Ave sat on the deck 
at twilight of the first day out, and watched the movements. 



THE DISINIIERITEP. 353 

and listened to the various expressions that fell from the lips 
of the crowded passengers. 

" She always had a bright gleam of religious, philosophical 
thought, with whichto illumine everj- hour of our existence, 
and radiate, with heavenlj joy, our every convei'sation. 
' There are not more dangers here than on land,' said she ; 
' to be true to our inner consciousness, ^Ye must say that 
wherever we are we are exposed to peril, and wherever we 
are we are protected from evil. -I have known a man to 
cross the ocean a hundred times, and fall at last at' his own 
door, and by it become maimed for life. There is no such a 
thing as an accident. Every result has a legitimate cause. 
Everything acts in obedience to undeviating hiAvs of God. 
We complain when we fall, but the same law that causes us 
to fall guides planets in their course, and regulates every 
motion of every object. It is only when we disobey these 
laws that evil comes, and every transgression receives its 
own penalty. It is impossible that it should be otherwi.se.' 

" We soon became acquainted with a number of the pas- 
sengers, and passed very many pleasant and profitable hours 
together. Evelina was the light of every circle, and the 
days flew by on rapid wings. The ship had made a rapid 
passage, and we were fast nearing our destined haven. 

" One Sabbath evening a storm commenced. The wind 
blew a hurricane. Everything on deck was lashed, and the 
sea rolled and pitched our vessel about as though it had been 
but a feather on its surface. We had all day expected the 
storm, and were prepared for it. As night advanced the 
storm increased. The rain fell in torrents, and the darkness 
was most inteiise. After a while, the lightning came, and 
the thunder reverberated with terrific peals over us. There 
were shrieks and wailings aboard our vessel, and many a 
brave heart quailed beneath the terror upon us. 

" I cared not for myself. My chief concern was for my 
30* 



r;54 TIALK HOUR RTOIIIRB, 

<l(!;ii- wife iind her fallicr. We kept our state-room for a long 
lime, hut iit leri;^th deemed it prudent to leave it. As we 
(hd HO, we lie.ird an awful eranh, and many a shriek and 
hurried prayei-. 1 myself he^an to fear, as the mast and 
flyin;f ri;^;>ing wnit hy us ; hut Evelina, even in sueh an 
hour, had words to cheer us all. She seemed, indeed, more 
of heaven tlian earth ; and I cared not for my fite, })rovided 
we l)oth met the same. 

" The captain ordered the hoals to he [^ot in readiness, and 
it was (|uiekly done. Soon another crash, and another mast 
fell, hearin;^ to the raging a1)ys8 of waters another company 
of helpless men, women and children. 

" I clasped my wife in my ai'ms, and, amid thi; wreck and 
frantic crowd of f)assengej's, S[)rang to a hoat. I placed 
Evelinii in it, and was just ahout to assist her father to the 
same hoat, when a large wave dashed over the ship and bore 
mo alone over the wide waters. , I remembered no more 
until I oi)eiied my eyes, and the sun was shining brightly 
all around tfle, and a young man was bathing my head, and 
brusliijig hack my wet hair, while sonic were standing by 
cxpi'cssing great joy. 

"1 soon became conscious of my situation, and I asked 
for Evelina. What a sadness filled my soul when I was told 
she was not th(;re, — that they had not heard of any such per- 
son ! Human language is weak with which to express the 
Borrow I then f»dl. Through all my varied life I had had 
nothing Ihat so mushed my spirit, and filled it with a sense 
of loneliness which it is impossil)le to describe. I ascertained 
tliat I was on board of a v(!ss<;l bound to Boston ; that I was 
fount! holding on a raft, almost insensible when found, and 
({uite HO a few inoments afterwards. For a long time no one 
expected that I w(mld recover my consciousness, but the 
'constant ellbrts of the passengei's and crew wore finally 
crowned with success, and I opened my eyes: 



THE DISINHEIIITED. 6hh 

" I gJivo all the information I could respecting the fate of 
the vcsrfcl, l)ut thoughts of my wife, and surmisings as to her 
fate and tliat of her father, often choked my utterance, and 
my words gave way for my tears. 

" The next morning I was delirious, with a fever. My 
anxiety for my wife, and the exposure 1 had suffered, brought 
my body and mind into a very critical state. For several 
days 1 talked wildly. At the clo.se of the fifth, I became 
sane in mind. I was yet quite ill. That niglit the ship 
entered Boston harbor. It anchored in the stream, and the 
next morning it hauled up to a wharf. 

c II A P T E 11 IV. 

" I was a perfect stranger. The captain was attentive to 
my Wants, and made me as comfortable as he could. You 
will remember how neat and quiet all appeared when, Avith 
my friend Jenks, you called on me. All of the passengers 
took an interest in my welfare, and made up a purse for me ; 
but they could not remain long with me. 'I'hey had been 
long absent from home, and were desirous of seeing their 
families and friends, or else they had business in this or some 
other place. One of them introduced my friend Jenks to 
rae ; and, 0, sir, he has been, indeed, a good friend to one 
having so few claims on his attention. He told me one night 
of you, and, agreeable to his promise, he brought you to the 
cabin of the vessel. The rest you know." 



Egbert had regained his strength to a gnut degree, and 
gave me the close of his narrative while we A^ere having a 
pleasant drive tiirough the country. A month had passed 
since we first met, and though many of the passengers had 
been heard from, the names of Evelina and her father had 
not been reported. 



356 HALF HOUR stories. 

When we reached our home, from our afternoon's drive, 
I took up an evening ■ paper, and the first paragraph I read 
was the following : 

"More from the White Wing. — The Orion, which 
arrived at this port this morning, brought fifteen passengers, 
rescued from the boats of the ' White Winn;. 



) )) 



Among the names mentioned in the above notice were 
these : "Mrs. Evelina Lawrence and her father, of England ; " 
and, at the conclusion, was the following item : 

" The case of Mrs. Lawrence and her father is one of 
those that loudly call for a bestowal of public sympathy and 
aid in her behalf She has lost a beloved husband, — one who, 
judging from the heavy sorrow that oppresses her, and the 
sighs and tears that break her recital of the events of their 
last hours together, was bound with the closest bonds of soul 
affinity to her own spirit. They must have been one, and 
are, indeed, one now, though to mortal eyes separated. We 
commend her to the kind charities of those who would follow 
the golden rule of doing unto others as they, in like circum- 
stances, would have others do unto them." 

Egbert noticed my interest in that which I was reading ; 
indeed, it would have been strange if he liad not ; for I could 
not suppress my joy, and it found expression in an occasional 
exclamation. 

At length, I handed him the paper. 

" My God ! my wife ! " he exclaimed, and he actually 
danced with joy and thankfulness. He would have rushed 
into the street, and by sudden exposure have caused a 
relapse of disease, had not I taken him by the hand, and 
forcibly, for a few moments, restrained him. So excessive 
was his happiness that, for a short time, he was delirious with 
|oy. He laughed and wept by turns : at one moment ex- 



IHE DISINHERITED. 357 

tending liis arms, and folding tliom as if clasping a beloved 
form ; tU i next, trembling as if in some fearful danger. But 
tliis did not long continue. He soon became calm- and 
rational, and we called a carriage for the purpose of going 
to the vessel on board of -which he expected to greet his wife 
and her father. 

My neighbor Jcnks accompanied us, and, as we rode hastily 
along, my mind reverted to the night when first I met' 
Egbert. That eventful evening came more vividly to mind 
as we found ourselves on the same wharf, and the carriage 
door was opened, and we alighted on nearly the same spot 
that we did at that time. 

Egbert leaped from the carriage, and at one bound was on 
the vessel's deck. He flew to the cabin, and in a moment I 
heard the loud exclamations on either side, " My Evelina ! " 
"My Egbert ! '' Mr. Jenks and myself followed below. An 
old gentleman met us, and, though a stranger, he grasped a 
hand of ours in each Of his, and wept with joy as he bade us 
welcome. The cabin was witness of a scene which a painter 
well might covet for a study. In close embrace Egbert and 
Evelina nrngled joys that seldom are known on earth. The 
old man held our hands, his face raised, eyes turned upward, 
while tears of happiness, such as he had never before known, 
coursed down his features. Tlie officers of the ship came 
hurrying in, snid the crew darkened the gangway with their 
presence. Wiiat a joyous time was that ! The evening was 
passed in recounting the adventures of each ; and even I hnd 
something to add to the general recital. It appeared that 
the boat in vvhich Egbert had placed his charge was safely 
cleared of tlie wreck, and, after being floated about two days, 
was met by an English ship bound to London. They, 
together with about twenty others who were in the boat, were 
Boon comfortably cared for. At the expiration of a lew 
weeks, they reached London, and were there placed on boaid 



"■■>Q UALF HOUR STORIES. 

a vosstl bound to l^oston, ;it Avliicli place tlicy in clue season 
iivriviMl. Tlio ^rief of Mi'S. L. (luiiu'i; all tliis time I wiL'^.. 
nut altcmpt to (K!,s('iil)c. The mind ol my reader can better 
depict it thiin I can with pen. Hope buoyed her up. And, 
though she had seen him swept from her side into the waters 
where waves towered up to the skies and sank again many 
lathoms below, yet she did hope she miglit see him again on 
earth. 

In the silent hour of night, as she lay and mused of those 
things, she thought she could hear a sweet voice whispering 
in her eiir, " Berty lives, and" you will meet him oncG 
again." And, as if in response to the voice, she said in her 
own mind, "I know he lives; but it may be in that bright 
world where, unencumbered with these mortal frames, we roam 
amid ever-enduring scones." The voice again said, " On 
earth, on earth." 

But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and 
the truth flashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard 
and thought a dream was not all a dream. And then she 
mused on as she was wont to do, and, after relating to us 
the incident, she said, " May it not bo that much of our life 
that we have thought passed in dreandand, and therefore 
among unreal tilings, has been spent with actual existences'/ 
For what is an 'unreal thing ' 7 It would not be a 
'thing' had it no existence ; and what is the 'it' that wo 
speak of? Can we not then conclude that there is nothing but 
Aviiat /.'? and i/ufsf liave an existence, though not so tangible 
1() our senses as to enable us to handle it or see it 7 What 
wo call ' imagination ' may be, after all, more real than the 
hard stones beneath our feet — less indestructible than they." 

Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very i)lausible to 
me, though my friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly pre- 
cise, matter-of-fact man, could not see any foundation for the 
theory. 



THE DISINHERITED, i:i)\) 

It was a late hour when Mr. Jciiks and myself passed to 
o^r homes. The next day Evelina and her fatlier -were 
coscyly quartered at the house in which Egbert had boarded. 

In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the 
west, and locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the 
Oliio, not many miles above Cincinnati. 

Mr. Jerdcs and myself aeconipiinied them to the cars ; and, 
amid our best wishes for their success, and their countless 
expressions of ^gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few 
moments the Disinherited was going to an inheritance which 
Cod had provided, and which lay in rich profusion awailing 
their possession. 

Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they 
were worthy God's blessing ; yet we had not need ask him to 
bestow it upon them ; for their very existence was a proof 
that he gave it to them. 



THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL 

The seasons all are beautiful, 

There is not one that 's sad, — 
Not one that does not give to thee 

A thought to make tiiee glad. 
I have heard a mournful cadence 

Fall on my listening ear, — 
'T was some one whispering, mournfully, 

" The Autumn days are here." 

But Autumn is not son-owful, — 

, full of joy is it ; ' 
I love at twilight hour to watch 

The shadows as they flit, — 
The shadows of the falling leaves, 

Upon their forest bed, 
And hear the rustling music tones 

Beneath the maiden's tread. 

The falling leaf! Say, what has it 

To sadden human thought ? 
For are not all its hours of life 

With dancing beauty fraught? 
And, having danced and sang its joy, 

It seeketh now its rest, — 
Is there a bettor place for it 

Than on its parent's breast? 

Ye think it dies. So they of old 

Thought of the soul of man. 
But, ah, ye know not all its course 

Since first its life began, 
And ye know not what future waits, 

Or what essential part 



THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL. 361 

That fallen leaf has yet to fill, 
In God's great -work of art. 

Count years and years, then multiply 

The whole till ages crowd 
Upon your mind, and even then 

Ye shall not see its shroud. 
But ye may see, — if look you can 

Upon that fallen leaf, — 
A higher life for it than now 

The life you deem so brief. 

And so shall we to higher life 

And purer joys ascend ; 
And, jDassing on, and on, and on, 

Be further from our end. 
This is the truth that Autumn brings, — 

Is aught of sorrow here ? 
If not, then deem it beautiful, 

Keep back the intrusive tear. 

Spring surely you '11 call beautiful, 

With its early buds and flowers, 
Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams, 

And gentle twilight hours. 
And Summer, that is beautiful, 

With fragrance on each breeze, 
And myriad warblers that give 

Free concerts 'mong the trees. 

I 've told you of the Autumn days, — 

Ye cannot call them sad. 
With such a lesson as they teach, 

To make the spirit glad. 
And Winter comes ; how clear and cold, 

In dazzling brilliance drest ! — 
Say, is not Winter beautiful, 

With jewels on his crest ? 

Thus are all seasons beautiful ; 

They all have joy for thee. 
And gladness for each living soul 

Comes from them full and free. 
81 



SPRING. 

It is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluc- 
tant step, and even now the traces of its footsteps are discern- 
ible on every side. At noon of these bright days the sun 
looks down smilingly upon the soil it seeks to bless with its 
cheerful, cheering rays. The tiny grass-blades peep out, 
and stretch forth their graceful forms, as if to thank the 
unknown source from which their enjoyments spring. "Un- 
known," I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdraw 
that word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade 
of grass recognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants ? 
I think not. I think that what we term "fancy" and 
" imagination " are the most real and enduring portions 
of existence. They are of that immortal part that will live 
after crumbling column and the adamantine foundations of 
earth have passed away, and lost their present identity in 
countless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces 
of nature unseen, yet are they not real ? Most assuredly 
they are. But I am talking of spring. I hinted at winter's 
tardy withdrawal. Look you how that little pile of snow 
hides itself in yonder shady nook, — right there where the 
sun's rays never come ; right there, as if ashamed, like a 
man out of place, — pity that it lingers. Here and there, at 
the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to be dissolved, 
that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over the glis- 
tening pebbles. 

The farmer opens his bai-u doors that the warm, fresh 



I 



363 



breeze may ramble amid its rafters. The cattle snufF the 
refreshing winds, that bear tidings of green fields. The house- 
wife opens door and windows, and begins to live more with- 
out than within. 

Let us to the woods. How the old leaves rustle beneath 
jur tread ! Winter hides his cold, wet hand underneath these 
leaves, and occasionally, we feel his chilling touch as we pass 
along. But from above the pleasant sunshine comes trick- 
ling down between the branches, and the warm south wind 
blows cheeringly among the trees. 

" Didst thou not hear yon swallow sing, 

Chirp, chirp? — In every note he seemed to say, 
"f is spring, 't is spring." 

Yes, 't is spring ; bright, glorious season, when nature 
awakes to new life and forest-concerts begin. 

Up with the window, throw open the closed shutter, let 
the fresh air in, and let the housed captive breathe the invig- 
orating elixir of life ; better by far than all your pills and 
cordials, and more strengthening than all the poor-man's 
plasters that have been or ever will be spread. 

The hale and hearty youth, whose clear and boisterous 
laugh did the old man good, as he heard it ring forth on the 
clear air of a winter's night, has become satiated with the 
pleasures of sleigh-rides and merry frolics, and welcomes the 
spring-time of year as a man greeteth the return of an old 
friend from a long journey. How his bright eye flashes with 
the joyous soul within him, as he treads the earth, and beholds 
the trees put forth their buds, and hears the warblings of the 
birds once again, where a few weeks since winter brooded in 
silence ! 

In town and country the coming of spring changes the 
general appearance of affairs. Not only nature, but men 
change. There is no longer the cold and frigid countenance. 
Men do not walk with quick and measured tread, but pass 



364 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

carelessly, easily along, as though it was a luxury and not a 
task to walk. Children are seen in little companies, pluck- 
ing the flowers and forcing the buds from their stems, as 
though to punish them for their tardiness. 

The very beasts of burden and of the field partake of the 
general joy ; as Thomson says, 

" Nor undelighted by the boundless spring 
Are the broad monsters of the foaming deep ; 
From the deep ooze and gelid cavern roused. 
They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy." 

In the town storekeepers obtain fresh supplies of goods ; 
the mechanic contracts new jobs ; the merchant repairs his 
vessel, and sends it forth, deeply freighted with the produc- 
tions of our own clime, to far distant lands : and the people 
generally brush up, and have the appearance of being a num-^ 
ber of years younger than they were a month since. 

In the country, the farmer is full of work. The ploughs 
are brought forth from their winter quarters, the earth is 
opened, that the warm sun and refreshing rains may prepare 
it for use ; old fences are repaired, and new ones made ; the 
housewife brushes up inside and out, and with the aid of the 
whitewash every old fence and shed- is made clean and pleas- 
ing to the eye. 

Welcome spring, a hearty welcome to thee ! Touch the 
cheek of the maiden, and make it as bright as the rose ; with 
thy fresh air give health to the sick and joy to the downcast. 
Thou bringest with thee sweet-smelling flowers, and the birda 
of the woods carol forth thy welcome. 



A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME. 

One word for humanity. One word for those who dwell 
in want around us. 0, ye who know not what it is to hun- 
ger, and have naught to meet your desire ; ye who never are 
cold, with naught to warm your chilled blood, forget not 
those who endure all these things. They are your brethren. 
They are of the same family as yourself, and have a claim 
upon your love, your sympathy, your kindness. 

Live not for yourselves. The world needs to learn this 
lesson. Mankind have to learn that only as they bless 
others are they themselves blest. It was the fine thought 
of the good Indian, Wah-pan-nah, that man should not 
pile up his dollars, — they may fall down and crush him, — 
but spread them out. 

" There be dark spot on you brother's path, — go lay dol- 
lar there and make it bright," said he. 

And since that suggestion came we have thought it over 
mid over, and have found it a text for a lifetime of goodness. 
Uo place the bright dollar in the poor man's hand, and the 
good you do will be reflected in rays of gratitude from a 
smiling face, and fall on you like the warm sunshine, to 
v;heer and refresh and strengthen your own soul. 

There are in this world too many dollars " piled up," and 
on the surface we see but the brightness of one. Were these 
all spread out, what a wide field of radiant beauty would 
greet our vision ! Instead of being a useless encumbrance, 
a care, a constant source of perplexity to one man, this wealth 
81* 



366 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

would make every man comfortable and happy. It would 
perform its legitimate work, were it not chained by avarice, 
— that canker-worm that destroys the fairest portions of our 
social system. 

And there is a joy in doing good, and in dispensing the 
bounties with which we are blest, thnt hath no equal in the 
household of man. To know that we have fed the hungry, 
clothed the naked, wiped away one tear, bathed in the sun- 
light of hope one desponding spirit, gives to us a happiness 
that hoarded wealth, though broad as earth and high as 
heaven, cannot impart. 

This is the true wealth. This the Avealth that rust cannot 
corrupt. There is no other real wealth in the universe. 
Gold and silver, houses and lands, are not wealth to the 
longing, aspiring soul of man. The joy of the spirit, which 
is the reward of a good deed, comes a gift from God, a treas- 
ure worthy of being garnered into the storehouse of an 
immortal being. 

There was one spot on earth where joy reigned. It was 
not in marble palace ; but in a low cot, beneath a roof of 
thatch. 

There was an indwelling sense of duty done ; a feeling 
somewhat akin to that Avhich we might suppose angels to 
feel, when a poor, earth-wearied traveller is relieved by 
them. 

That was a subject fit for a Raphael's pencil, as she, of 
form and feature more angelic than human, sat beside that 
cottage door, and her mild blue eye gazed steadfastly up to 
heaven, and the light of the moon disclosed to mortal view 
her calm and beautiful features. 

Two hours previous, over a sick and languishing child a 
mother bowed with maternal fondness. She pressed her lips 
to his chilled forehead, and wiped the cold sweat from his 
aching brow. 



A TEXT rOK A LIFETIME. 367 

"Be patient, my child," said she; "God will provide." 
And why did she bid him " be patient " 7 None could have 
been more so ; for through the long hours of that long sum- 
mer day he had lain there, suffered and endured all ; yet 
not one sigh had arisen from his breast, not one complaint 
had passed his parched lips. 

" I know it," said he. And the mother kissed him again, 
and again said, 

" God will provide." 

Mother and son ! the one sick, the other crushed down 
uitli poverty and sorrow. Yet in this her hour of adversity 
her trust in the God of her fathers wavered not ; she firmly 
relied on Him for support, whom she had never found for- 
getful of her. The widow and the fatherless were in that 
low tenement, and above Avas the God Avho had promised to 
protect them. 

Again she whispered in the lad's ear, "God will provide." 

The light of that day's sun had not rested upon food in 
that dwelling. Heavily the hours passed by. Each seemed 
longer than that which had preceded it. 

A rap at the door was heard. She arose and hastened to 
it. No person was in sight ; but in the moon's bright rays 
stood a basket, on which lay a card, stating that it and its 
contents were for her and her child, and that on the morrow a 
nurse and every comfort they might want would be provided. 

She bowed herself beside it, and thanked God for the gift. 
Then with a joyful heart she carried it within, and her child's 
eye sparkled as he heard the glad news, that He who watcheth 
the sparrows had not forgotten them. 

Let us return now to that thatched cottage. She, whose 
mild eye gazeth up to heaven, whilst passing the door of the 
famishing mother and child an hour previous, had heard the 
words with which that mother had encouraged her dying son. 

With speed the maiden hastened to her home, and from 



r,08 HALF HOUR STORIES. 

her own limited store curried forth that basket, and heaven 
like bestowed the gift unseen and unknown, save by Hirr, 
who seeth and who rewardeth. The deed of mercy accom- 
plished, she hastened to her home ; and now, as she looks 
upward, how her eye beams with joy, and her heart breaks 
forth in songs of gratitude to Him who made her the instru- 
ment of so much good ! 

Gold, with all its power, cannot bring joy unless dealt 
forth with a willing heart like hers. The king in his palace, 
whose sceptre's sway extends over vast dominions, hath no 
pleasures capable of rivalling that which, by an act of charity, 
was brought to the soul of that young cottage girl. 

Reader, whatever your condition, you can possess a joy like 
hers. If you have not what men call wealth, with which to 
help the weak and desponding, you have a smile of sympathy, 
a look of kindness, a word of love. Give those, and you 
shall know what a blessed thing is Cliarity. 



NOW CLOSE THE BOOK. 

Now close tho book. Each pago liiith done its part. 

Each thoiifijht lath left its iiiiproHS on tlie licart. 

O, may it bo t\)at nauf^ht hatli hero been traced 

That aftcsr y<^ara may wish to have effaced ! 

0, may it bo Humanity hatli won 

Some slight bostowment by tho task now done ! 

If struggling Right hath found one cheering word. 
If iropo hatli in d(!Hp(jnding heart boon stirred, 
If Sorrow hatli from one lone soul boon driven 
By one kind word of Sympathy here given, 
Then in my soul a living joy shall dwell, 
Brighter than art can paint or language toll. 

Yes, close the book : tho story and tho song 
Have each been said, and sung. I see the throng 
Of gentle ministrants who 've led my pen 
Withdraw tlieir aid. I hear tho word, Amen. 
And now to you, who have been with me through 
Tho ' Town and Country," I must bid adiou. 



